


F*** You, Father Time

by AliceAvis



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Demon!hiccup, M/M, Magic AU, Modern AU, Past Abuse, Smut, Sorcerer!Jack, sick!Jack, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceAvis/pseuds/AliceAvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is a terminally ill warlock that will do anything to save himself. Even if anything means summoning a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Time Walmart Bags Looked Like Jellyfish

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I posted on Tumblr for HiJack Month, then I forgot about it. But then I came across this gorgeous fanart by miundy-foxy and was like "oh hey, people actually liked that fic ^^" lol.
> 
> So I've decided to continue. Now that it's posted here, that should be enough incentive for me to finish it.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy :).

Walmart bags look remarkably like jellyfish, blowing in the wind and tumbling across the parking lot. They're that awkward shade of blue-gray that's kind of menacing, kind of friendly. Like, "hello there, friend, don't mind me. I'm just your friendly neighborhood Walmart bag going about my business. Wouldn't it be a shame if I suffocated you by accident?" It's that shade of blue-gray that covers waiting room floors and school hallways and plastic cases that hold fluorescent lights. Odd, muted, not natural but not unnatural, either. What is it about those Walmart bags?

Just fuck it. Jack doesn't have time to contemplate the existential risk of Walmart bags. He's carrying four of them and jogging across the pavement. Faded white and yellow stripes slashed by tires and old tennis shoes like the ones he's wearing now. The laces are chewed. He runs and sweats through the three layers of cardigans. It's damn embarrassing, that's what it is. If someone peeked out their window, they would see him staggering with his sweaty ass clothes and his Walmart bags and his hobo hair and his bloodshot eyes that make him look like a pothead. The invisible idiot that lives upstairs with his three-legged cat.

He never comes out, they say. And when he does, he always looks like shit. Even in the eighty-five degree heat weighed down with humidity and mosquito spray, he's wearing layers and a scarf. Nose red, eyes sinking into his face. Here's something nice: if he ever needs to dress up as a zombie, he won't have to put on any makeup, 'cause he already looks the part. Jackson Overland, the walking mess. The sick, stupid, desperate mess. His legs are Jell-O when he climbs the stairs. The apartment complex is the kind you see in B-List horror movies. All the doors on the outside, all the blinds white and straight and closed. Neighbors you'll never talk to lean against the metal railing, smoking and peeling the chipped green paint. Couples argue some nights, people bang on shut doors, people scream and call 911 and the cops show up at two in the morning. Sometimes there are people you have never seen and will never see again. They stare at you as they walk down the stairs, bag in hand.

Hey. Hey, is that a Walmart bag? Jack always asks them what's in it, but they never answer. No one ever does. So he watches tenants come and go from the safety of his apartment, smoking and staring out the window. His neighbors don't talk to him. They call him a—

"Fucking weirdo." The little girl that lives next door says it when he's trying to find his keys. She's got her hands behind her back, rocking on her kitten heels. Those are some nice shoes for a six-year-old, blue and strappy. Jack never knew they made heels that small.

"That's a bad word, Sophie." He doesn't look at her, just keeps looking for his keys. He shakes his jacket and rifles through his pockets, hoping he doesn't drop his bags. "Doesn't your mother teach you anything?"

"She taught me how to color inside the lines." The keys clatter to the concrete. She stares at them. "Do you know how to color inside the lines?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've got a bunch of coloring books in my apartment. It's great."

"You don't sound like you think it's great."

Jack sighs. "I like coloring books, okay Sophie? But I'm trying to do something right now. I'm trying, shit, I'm trying to find someth—"

"Do you have cancer?"

He's about to kick the door, but stops. "Huh?"

"Mommy says you look sick all the time, she says you have cancer."

"Well, I don't. So you can tell her that."

"Then what do you have? Mommy said, one time she said, everyone has something." It's the most innocent question ever. Wrapped up in this voice that says things like fuck, coloring, and mommy all in one conversation. Big brown eyes inside her round face, hair hanging straight and stringy. She's a doll. Not in the cute sort of way. No, no, she's one of those demon dolls that smiles and says they're going to kill you.

Not that she means to be. No, no, not at all. It's unintentional. But it's the way she asks the question, the way she blinks and looks up at him. Or maybe it's not her, maybe it's the question itself. Because he's stuttering and shaking his head.

"N-Nothing. I don't have anything."

"But you look bad."

"This is how I look. It's not nice to say those things to people."

"But if you're sick, you should go to the doctor." Sophie twirls pieces of hair. "Mommy goes to the doctor to get check-ups all the time. You should go, too."

"Okay, sure, I'll go." This is fucking ridiculous. Groaning, he rests his forehead against the chipped green paint. "Where the hell are my keys?"

"They're right there. I'll get them."

"Uh, thanks." He kneels and takes them from her tiny hands. So small and warm. Like she's had her hands stuffed in oven mitts.

They're eye-level for half a second. Then she bends down to pick up a dead dragonfly that's been flattened against the concrete. Jeweled wings catch the orange sunlight. They're stained glass windows with a few pieces punched out.

Jack stands up a little too fast. Sophie's face goes round and round. Shit, he needs to get inside. The Walmart bags are getting heavy.

"You okay, you fucking weirdo?"

He shakes his head. "I'm fine. Thanks for finding my keys. And don't say that word anymore."

"I'll try not to."

She's still standing there when he closes the door. Little rectangle of light, getting skinnier and skinnier till it starves itself and dies. Rest in peace.

He locks the door. Deadbolts it, moves the chain, and turns the handle twice. It's locked, locked, locked. Three is a good number. God has three parts. Satan has three faces. Walmart had a sale on generic peanut butter today, three for one. Jack bought six jars. Eye pressed against the peephole, he looks for Sophie. Gone. The concrete walkway is empty and silent. Cars speed by on the highway, but that's the only sound. Or is it? Listen harder, people are talking in the apartment downstairs. No, that's a television, blaring and screaming about the stock market. It's the same people that blast C-Span at three in the morning. Jack would rather hear gunshots than that shit.

But it's clear, that's all that matters. No one outside, no one peeking through the window. He slides down, feeling every slit and gash in the paint. Fingernail marks, knife wounds, angry shards of broken glass. This poor door has been through enough. But he still beats it with the back of his head and drops the bags onto the floor. Peanut butter jars roll across blue-gray tile. Everything else is fine, a few black candles, some matches, some cracked geodes that are stuck on cheap necklaces, and a package of Crayola chalk. Nothing broken except for the blue piece of chalk, it's cracked down the middle now.

Jack's head is cracked down the middle. An antennae TV hit with a sledgehammer, a stack of paper shoved through the shredder, a slab of meat carved out with a cleaver. It's happening more often. Twice a day instead of once. Sudden instead of creeping. When he was in line at the cash register he felt it coming on. A feeling even more shitty than usual. Shaking legs and fingers, cold sweat and hot body. Fuck, the fever just skyrockets. One second, gone. And then it's in his bones, weighing down his eyes and tongue and head. And the cashier is telling him that his total is $16.50.

$16.50. Sir? Sir? Hello? Hey!

Someone shook him. He nodded, handed them a twenty and walked away.

Jack drove with the heat turned all the way up. Teeth chattering, he muttered some kind of shit spell and turned all the lights green. Did anyone get in an accident? Who gives a fuck?

Just drive.

He did.

And Sophie's face still lingers in his brain. "What do you have? What do you have?"

"Nothing…" He whispers it and covers his eyes with one hand. The other twitching on the tile. It's easy. Just close your eyes, breathe, and ignore the itching. It's inside, your esophagus, your intestines, your stomach. This itching that doesn't go away, no matter how much you scratch your skin. Because it's inside you, dummy. And that's the whole point. One time, the landlord discovered his three-legged cat. No pets allowed, so they fed it a can of tuna with a few razor blades in it. The cat came home, meowed at Jack, and threw up all over the tile. Teeth bared, it tried to bite its own stomach out. It succeeded and died like a disemboweled soldier on a beach.

Fucking landlord. They've caused Jack so many angry tears. It's easy enough to bring a cat back, but still. Now it never leaves the apartment. Poor, traumatized thing. Who knows what it saw in cat hell?

Jack wants to claw out his stomach. And his throat and his tongue and everything inside. It'll pass, just relax. But no, fucker, you don't get it. You don't get the feeling of a cleaver in your head and razor blades in your stomach. You don't get the raking of nails across a closed shirt. He knows he shouldn't, but holy shit. Three layers of clothes are enough. Right? Enough to keep his fingernails out. So he pretends that he doesn't have hands and he sits on them till they go numb. Fuck, it's awful. Pain that bites and pokes and prods. He lies face down on the tile and tries not to scream into it. At least it's colder down there, on a few weeks' worth of dust and ashes. And he can bang his head against the floor and writhe and dig his nails into his scalp. Dig them somewhere, please, anywhere but in your torso. Don't disembowel yourself, idiot.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, a fucking half hour. It only ends when the razorblades come out. His razorblades are clumps of congealed blood and black shit that looks like tar. He throws it up in one of the Walmart bags. There's no way he's recycling it now. What a waste.

His three-legged cat nuzzles his sweaty cheek. Then he curls up next to the numb hands and licks every finger. Jack closes his eyes for a while.

He opens them after an hour, maybe two, and sits on the pleather couch he got off Craig's List. God knows what this thing has been through. In the short time it's been at his apartment, it's already been bled on, puked on, set on fire and doused in bleach. Dusted with ashes, covered in feathers and fur and peppered with bone meal that tasted salty on Jack's tongue. His cat sheds all over the damn thing. He uses a quick spell to clean it. But when it's late and he's tired, he lets it sit there in the dark. Alone and filthy. Tonight, he's sprawled across it, chin nodding against his chest. A fan spins overhead. A fan spins next to him, standing and making a humming sound. It's nice. Subtle, settled into the deepest part of his ear. He listens to the hum rather than the TV.

Recovering from an episode takes a minimum of thirty minutes. Jack listens as the feelings slip away. The itching fades, the fever recedes like a tide. When he's sick, it's like he's packed inside a freezer which is packed inside a blazing oven.

But who is he kidding? He's always sick. That's what it does to you, the disease no witch or warlock wants. Ever. It's not like the Bubonic Plague. That's the thing everyone laughs at. They toss jokes like throwing knives and cackle at the stupidity of their ancestors. Because no gets that anymore and if people just took a fucking bath they would have been find. No one makes fun of cancer. No one pokes and prods it with their sharpened words. Oh God, no. You don't say a word about cancer. You don't say a good word or bad word. You say nothing at all.

That's what Jack has, the magical equivalent to cancer. They call it Kronos Disease, not to be confused with Crohn's Disease. Humans can't get it, humans haven't even heard of it. Named after the god that ate his children, the symbolism is so pretentious it's almost more painful than the actual sickness.

Jack could debate that. It's non-contagious, it's sudden, and it's hell. A basic list of symptoms: fatigue, loss of weight, loss of appetite, lowered immune system, fever, sudden instances where your body literally starts to reject your own fucking blood. And then your insides itch until you puke up the black clumps of red blood cells and platelets. It gets worse over time. One day, the instances go from sudden to permanent and you go into freefall. Afraid of its own blood, your fragile little body purges itself of every last drop. Then you lie there, quiet, empty, dead.

Yeah, let's skip that last part.

Jack sits up, blinking and looking for the remote. The cat's sitting on it. "Get up. I'm sick of Modern Marvels."

He hisses.

"Don't be an asshole. I've got five months left, tops. Let me watch something I actually like."

Another hiss.

"Fine. Fuck you."

There's a beat of silence, nothing but the hum of the fans and Jack's coughs. The cat paws the remote. He keeps changing channels until Jack says, "Yeah, whatever, that's fine. Thanks."

It's an episode of America's Next Top Model, some repeat from Cycle One. Girls pose in a Seven Deadly Sins photo shoot. How ironic, one of the rumors among the magic community is that Kronos is caused by Envy. More of a superstition than a rumor, but still, that doesn't stop them from whispering behind his back.

He doesn't move until the episode is over.

It's over and he's migrated to the bathroom. Where the countertop is made of plastic and the floor is chipped tile. Where the light bulbs flicker with dead mosquitoes, the toothbrush holder is full of crystals and dust, and spell books are stacked behind the toilet. Where a summoning circle is drawn on the seat in black Sharpie, just in case he needs to summon something while taking a shit. Hey, it happens. Where the shower curtain is held up by a rusted rod and the faucet leaks cold water.

Where he gets the idea. The sudden, stupid, desperate idea. He stares at the Sharpie circle and thinks of the black candles he bought at Walmart.

Sophie's face wavers in his head. "But if you're sick, you should go to the doctor."

Jack smiles. Oh sweet, little Sophie, he has something better than a doctor. He has cheap candles and crystals and ash and a bag of black, tarry blood. He has magic and desperation, a dangerous combo.

He has nothing to lose.

When Jack was eighteen, he had sex for the first time. It was with an older warlock, one with slicked back hair and ashy skin. They fucked in a basement, over a half-done pentagram that no one ever finished drawing. Those years had been crazy. Jack jumping with so much hot energy, his thighs always burning, his pupils always dilated. He begged for it on the rotten, wooden floor and wrapped his legs around that boney ribcage. A few words for it: strange and split open.

When Jack was nineteen, he met a girl with color changing hair. Her hands were small, she masturbated while they kissed. He'd never known anything hotter. Except for the candles that burned black beside them, the words she whispered in Latin and Hindi that brought spots to his eyes. There was a vase of dried peonies on her nightstand and her sheets were covered in stars. He'll never forget the way his eyes rolled when she fingered him.

When Jack was twenty, he started dancing at a club. Easy money, and it was fun. An Australian with magic tattoos watched him every Friday night. Jack crawled towards him on his hands and knees. Watching the tattoos spiral and rock like boats on the water. So close, they were about to kiss. But they didn't pay him enough for that, so he breathed alcohol in the Australian's face and slunk back to the pole. His cock strained against his thong that night.

When Jack was twenty-one, he got sick. Fucking Kronos and his terrible timing. At the pinnacle of his career, everything fell apart, unraveled like bandages at his feet. You can't work if you keep coughing up blood. You can't dance if your body keeps seizing up in pain. You can't do shit. At least, that's what they told him.

Now he's twenty-two and dying slowly. We're all dying, if you want to get existential about it. But what kind of pretentious asshole looks into the face of someone with borrowed time and says "I'm dying, too"?

A lot of people in the magical community are pretentious assholes. They roll their eyes whenever he goes to the bar and coughs into a paper napkin.

"What's the point of even coming if you're just gonna be sick all night?"

"Fuck, we get it. You're dying. So what? We all are."

"There's gotta be something out there, some kind of spell. You're just not looking hard enough."

And then he's had enough. He slams his drink so hard it shatters. Shaking, blood running down his chin, he leaves without paying. Yeah, he can't go there anymore.

But that doesn't matter right now. All he cares about is drawing the perfect circle. Chalk held between his teeth, he stands up and evaluates. Not bad for a dead man. He's always been good at drawing circles. Someone once told him that's the mark of a crazy person. With one swipe of his hand, he turns the chalk into a cigarette and lights it with a thought. Smoke veils his face. For a moment, his eyes glow like they used to.

It's almost complete. The circle is drawn, the candles are arranged. He finishes the inside, drawing straight lines and sigils he memorized when he was twelve. No right angles. The paper crinkles when he kneels. Don't rip, damnit. His whole apartment is made of tile, so he has to unroll massive sheets of paper he bought at some craft store. Layers black and thin, he's got to be careful. Smoke slips through his lips, sweat beads on his forehead. Almost done, almost…

"Fucking finally." Jack stands up without using his hands. It's harder now, but he can't risk smearing the chalk. Rocking on his heels, he smiles and flicks ash onto the tile. Light the candles one-by-one. Try not to cough on them. Pile ash in the middle of the pentagram, dump the Walmart bag out and watch the congealed blood harden like lava. It's disgusting as shit, but he doesn't notice or care. A few deep breaths later and he's ready at the edge of the circle. No book. No spells scrawled on torn napkins. Just Jack standing and looking like death and rolling the cigarette between his teeth.

When he utters the words, the burned out butt hits the floor. It's brief, it's Latin, like most spells are. Using a dead language is so fucking pretentious but he does it anyways. He's not calling Satan or asking for Asmodeus to come and grant him a perfect sex life. He's just asking for a little bit of help.

Basically it's, "Look, I know there are plenty of demons out there looking for a contract. I'll be honest, I'm sick and dying and I would really like to live past Halloween. Maybe even longer. Don't try to scam me, cause I'll fucking know. Just don't try it. And don't pop in just to taunt me or whatever other crap you all do. I'll do anything short of chucking a baby out a window for this contract. If you show up, make it worth my while."

No answer.

The fan spins overhead. The fan spins beside him. A drop of water falls from the faucet and into the kitchen sink. Someone talks next door, they're muffled and sound like they're underwater. Jack sighs. Well, you can't expect demons to come when they're called.

No, wait, you can. You can definitely expect them to come when they're called because that's the whole point of a summoning. That's the whole fucking point.

"Fine, let's try again."

He walks to the pantry and grabs six more candles. Fifteen minutes later, he's walking back, and then he's back and grabbing six more candles. The digital clock clicks every half hour. The pantry door is cracked open, spider webs strung across the white wire shelves. Jack holds his lighter over the black wicks, his face shining with sweat in the orange light. It's not working. Every word is spat out, enunciated and said with so much force he's afraid he'll spit his teeth out. There's no way he's saying it wrong. No way in hell. But just to be safe, he'll check Google. Once. Twice. Three times. Sweat drips onto the screen. He coughs and ignores the pain in his side. Those candles were cheap, less than a dollar at Walmart. He's going through them like an alcoholic through a bottle of vanilla extract. Maybe it's the candles? Maybe their flames are too weak?

Standing on a wooden step-stool, he rifles through his closet. There's a lot of shit on that shelf. A toy top, a spool of ribbon, a screwdriver, and a water gun. An old container of pudding, knitting needles, a clear umbrella that lets you see the sky when it rains. He tosses the box of markers and the pair of handcuffs aside. Oh, that's where his crowbar went. And look over there, the blue hoodie his boss gave him when he worked at the Fork and Dagger. A kinky ass nightclub with chrome seats and sex swings made of leather. All Jack ever did was dance, but he would sit in the swings after closing every now and then. His boss gave him the jacket as an "employee of the month" present. Hundred percent silk, with his name written on the back. Frost.

He throws the pudding container on it. There's an extra big candle in here somewhere. It's thick and white, the wick at least an inch long. It looks out of place in the circle. No one cares. Another hour later and the circle has been changed again. It's a sloppy summoning circle with mismatched candles all around. Jack kneels at the edge. It's so hot, his pants are off and he's sitting on sweaty, sticky legs that look so, so white in the darkness. Wrinkled T-shirt and boxer briefs. There he is, the most pathetic warlock in all of history. That skin is so fucking pallid and those eyes are so sunk in. The hands clench and unclench on naked thighs. The thighs shiver 'cause the A/C just turned on. Halleluiah, that thing's been broken for a week. But the most pathetic warlock ever doesn't care. He sways, staring into the circle, at the pile of dried blood, and wondering what he has to do.

Who he has to be.

How he has to act.

What he has to say.

Something, anything. Anything at all, just to make someone come. Somebody, anybody. He traces over the chalk circle, making the lines hard and round. And then he throws the chalk at the wall and it shatters. Staring into the circle, watching the blood and wax and fire congeal. His fingertips are at the edge. He touches the circle and his eyes glow and roll back into his head. The words that come out are Latin and something else. Something weird, that's for sure. Weird as fuck. It's all numb. The pain in his side reduced to buzzing. An obnoxious buzzing that swallows his ears whole. Wicks burn brighter, brighter. Flames turn blue, turn red, turn black. Jack can't stop. He can't let go now. Words come so fast he bites his tongue, but it keeps moving amidst the blood. A steady stream that slips down his chin and hits the ground. With the friction fast as lightning, he's moving and shaking and ripping the paper apart with his legs. Nails dig into his palms. More words. Less fire. Fast speech. Slow desire. Desire that burns like candles as the digital clock screeches. It can't click, can't bring itself to change the time. Not while the fire is lit, smoldering in Jack's empty eyes. He grabs the darkness with both hands, forces it to stop, stop, stop. The fans keeps spinning. The pantry door slams shut. The faucet whistles as white hot water comes rushing out. A candle explodes, a grenade of color and wax. Both hands on the circle, Jack never lets go. He grits his teeth, the fan crashes down onto the coffee table, and it's over.

It's all fucking over.

Jack feels the shards of glass around his feet. He doesn't move. People are shouting next door. Footsteps, and someone's knocking on his door. Sophie screams, "Hey, hey! Hey, fucking weirdo! What was that? You okay?"

He should be nice and answer it. Stick his face out, smile, and say, "Hello, little one. There's nothing to worry about here, I'm clumsy, that's all. Oh, silly me!"

But that would be stupid for several reasons.

One, he's not like that. There's no way he could ever say those words seriously. No way in hell.

Two, Sophie is small and happy and perfect. If she looked at his face right now, her little world might break apart.

Three, he can't move. He literally can't move. Because someone is standing in the middle of his circle, toes curled into the dried blood and wax. A man that looks kind of like a dragon. Or maybe it's a dragon that looks kind of like a man? Whatever it is, Jack can't look away. Not because he's never seen eyes that green. Not because he's never seen freckles that almost look alive. Not because he's never seen nails sharp as knives or horns that curve like a telekinetic's spoons.

No… it's what the dragon man says.

It's what the demon whispers as he cocks his head.

"Uh, hey, there. Need some help?"


	2. That Time Glass Shards Looked Like Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... I know it's been months. I am a terrible person for making people wait. I have no excuse except for school and writer's block and shit like that, but anyways, here is chapter two!
> 
> Enjoy :).

Glass shards look remarkably like ice, fractured and shining beneath a hundred watt bulb. In the coldest parts of the world, ice is perfect. Ice is clear. Ice is what scientists marvel at and touch with shaking hands. They say, "Wow, wow. Just look at this. This is amazing, how ancient and pure this is. Were the dinosaurs alive when this was made?"

Jack doesn't give a fuck about dinosaurs.

Or purity.

Or ice.

His ice is lifeless and warm. The A/C is dying again, but there's no time to call a repairman. His shaking hands clutch shards of glass. How did they get there? Five seconds ago, they were gathered around his feet. Now they're in between his fingers, digging into the lines of his palm. Glass here, glass there, glass everywhere. All over the floor and ceiling. Seriously, there are pieces embedded in the popcorn ceiling. The most dangerous stalagmites ever.

Or are they called stalactites?

He wracks his brain. Nothing. Every nerve ending is torn apart, shot to hell. It looks like the aftermath of an F5 in Tornado Alley. But Dorothy doesn't live in his fucked up grey matter. She follows the yellow brick road, not the red neuropathway. She walks off with her heart and her courage and her brain, leaving her murder far behind. 'Cause no one cares about the witch beneath the house. They have a vague awareness that she is evil, and that is all they need. Someone tells someone else that she deserves to die. So she dies. And no one cares. They watch Dorothy walk off and they smile.

Yay for the girl that's got her heart and her courage and her brain. She'll be okay. Dorothy will be okay.

The warlock is not okay. He's hiding in his house and watching the blood run down his wrists. The glass shards will never be cold, so he opens both hands and lets them fall. They sound like raindrops.

Sophie sounds like a cop. She bangs on the door and screams, "Hello! Hello! Open up, you fucking weirdo! Open up or I'll open you up myself!"

"Don't even try it, kid." He whispers it into the darkness. A few of the candles are still lit. They wink and beg for attention. He looks at them, he looks at the puddles of wax and the piles of glass. He looks at the fallen angel that used to be his fan. He looks at everything but the demon. It's still there, of course. Sitting criss-cross-applesauce in the middle of the circle.

When Jack was in elementary school, he threw a cup of applesauce at his teacher. "Why do you tell us to sit that way, stupid head? It doesn't make any fucking sense!" He was sent to the principal's office for saying "stupid head".

"That's a very interesting story."

"Huh?" Jack flinches, finally looking at the demon man thing. "What do you mean?"

"The story about your teacher. It's interesting. Though I don't know why you told me about it."

"I… I didn't mean to. I'm just, uh, thinking in words… like, spoken words. Sorry."

"No need to apologize." The demon rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck. "I can tell you're flustered, so I'll ask you again. Do you need any help?"

"Help?"

"Uh, yeah, help." He rolls his eyes. "Do I need to pull out a dictionary for you?"

Jack looks at the floor. The demon's eyes make his head hurt. "You have a dictionary? Where?"

"Up my ass. Okay, I don't actually have a dictionary up my ass but you're really pissing me off. Why did you summon me? Do you need any help?"

His laugh is ice and glass all mixed together. "Are you really asking that question? Look at me! I'm half-naked, sitting in my own blood and puke. My fan has rocket launched itself into my coffee table. My neighbors are screaming and I'm gonna die soon. Like actually die! Do I need help… what do you think?"

The demon blinks. If you pay attention, you can see the second eyelid swipe across his pupils. "I'm gonna go with yes. Yes, you do need help."

"You're a smartass."

"I can be whatever I want. I don't need anything from you. You're the one that needs help, remember?" He starts picking at a loose scale on his elbow. "I've got nothing to do, I can sit in this circle forever. So just watch yourself."

Jack swallows. Laugher turns to bile in his throat. Shit, it's so hard to hold it back. The itch climbs up from his lungs, from every organ inside his body. So much for a snarky comeback; he can't even get a word out. His retort is a fit of coughing and puking up blood.

"W-Wait! I-I was just screwing with you!" The demon's flailing, rocking back and forth on his feet and waving his hands all over the place. "Stop, stop, stop! I'm not an asshole… really, I'm not. Are you okay?"

The tile is cold against Jack's cheek. He's sideways, staring at the cracked wall and the popcorn ceiling and the snuffed out candles. Huddled together, prayer-like, he feels the blood on his lips.

The demon lies down beside him. Fuck those green eyes, they're penetrating.

"Um, hello? I didn't mean to break you. Is that what I've done, fragile human? Broken you?"

"No." He smiles through bloody teeth. "You didn't break me. Father Time did."

A few seconds of silence. Or maybe a few years. Green eyes rove every line and pore, a dragon inspecting its horde. The demon licks his lips. They're pink lips, wet lips. And the tips of his fingers are wet, too. When he cocks his head, he almost looks like he's dripping. Dripping with what, though? Jack can't tell. All he can see is the shine of the demon's claws, the moisture beading on his stomach. For a moment, they are both trapped in the circle. A cage of heat and fire, of broken fans and dead candles.

Jack can feel every line in the floor. Scuffs from moving furniture, scratches from drunken games of midnight golf. He got rid of that golf club ages ago, thank the gods. And there are chips from chasing the cat around, from his attempts at doing CrossFit, from his brief and boring life. The floor is alive. More alive than he is. All those scratches, thinner than strands of hair, are veins. Each tile is a cell. The cheap insulation is fat and the paint is peeling skin. His apartment is more put together than he is. Even as it falls apart, bit by bit, it will always outlast him.

This must be a sad thought, because he starts to cry. Time speeds up and the demon is there, blinking in the silence.

He watches Jack. He opens his mouth but doesn't say anything. Threads of spit look like Chantilly lace.

Jack didn't know that was possible, but it is.

The demon clicks his tongue. "Ohhh, I get it. You have Kronos, don't you?"

Jack tries to answer, but someone is killing the silence. Voices rise from the first floor. Someone starts yelling. Someone makes a phone call. The demon's jaws snap shut and the silence dies. Sophie is still banging on the door, screaming and crying.

"Open up! Open up! Weirdo? Jack?"

Now the mother is outside. She bites her nails and talks at the same time. "My neighbor… yeah. Like five minutes ago. Sounded like a crash or something, like a—no, no, not like a bomb, like a crash. I don't know what happened, that's the point. And now my power's out… I'm not sayin' it's related, it's just weird. Can you just send somebody? No, wait, I—Listen you dumb fuck, I said it wasn't a bomb! Just send a cop, asshole."

Sophie kicks the door. "Yeah! Listen up you dumb fuck!"

"No, baby, don't say that. Only Mommy can say those words." She starts knocking on Jack's door. They're fast, short knocks. Almost like slaps. "Hey, Jack! You in there?"

Yes, he's in there. Lying on the floor and staring at a demon. The room spins, all he can hear are the words 'cop' and 'bomb'. Cops are coming, and not in the sexy way. They're straddling their motorcycles. They're tearing up intersections, red lights reflected in their eyes. They're gonna bust down his door and find him in this unexplainable situation.

You can't get out of this one, Jack. Cops will write you off as a psycho cultist. Paramedics won't know what to make of the blood filling up your lungs. You'll be another example in a pamphlet about the improper treatment of Kronos Disease. The idiots at the bar will shrug and say, "What a shame. But we all become statistics in the end, don't we?"

So you have two options:

Run now before law enforcement finds you. Flee the country and change your name, maybe even dye your hair.

Or you can kill law enforcement, destroy it in its entirety. Rid the world of all police officers and die a sick, but happy man.

"Or I could help you out."

"Huh?"

The demon snaps his fingers in front of Jack's face. "You're thinking in spoken words again."

"Sorry." The room spins faster. But he still sits up. "I shouldn't talk to myself… makes me look crazy."

"Well, you just summoned a demon using Walmart candles and sidewalk chalk. I think you're beyond crazy, buddy. But fortunately for you, I don't mind." He grabs Jack's face with both hands, brings him close. "Would you like me to help you?"

"Y-Yes. Please." His eyes are bulging, so is his brain. It knocks against his skull.

The demon nods. "Okay, then. I'll help you."

"What does that entail, exactly?"

"Whatever you want. I just want one thing." Curved claws dig into Jack's chest. Hard and sharp like diabetic needles. "Your soul."

Jack grins. "That's kinda cliché."

"Well, I'm a demon, so I don't know what you were expecting."

The claws ease up. With shaking fingers, Jack holds the demon's hand against him. He grabs it by the wrist and presses down, thankful for the little patch of heat.

The rainbow-haired girl he used to date would conjure up heat spells when she was on her period. Lying in bed, legs splayed across Gemini, she would close her eyes and press her hands against her abdomen. Right above the subtle dip of her hipbones. Right below her bellybutton.

Jack flopped down next to her. "You making your own hot water bottle or something?"

She sighed. "I've explained this before, dumbass. But I'll do it again because your teeth are so pretty. Heat helps the cramps go away. You don't have a uterus, so you'll never understand. Lucky you."

Yeah, lucky me.

Sure, he'll never know what it feels like to bleed from a vagina, but he knows what it feels like to die. When your head spins and your stomach rolls. He's a ballerina that forgot how to spot. Just keep spinning, you fucking idiot. But I can't, I really can't. No excuses, just keep spinning.

He drags the demon's hand all over his chest, his stomach. Gods, it feels so good.

"I'm sure it does feel good, but what are you doing?"

Jack flinches. Oh yeah, the demon hand is connected to a demon body. For the third time today, he doesn't know what to say. They have to stop meeting like this.

He lets go of the wrist. "S-Sorry. I'm, uh, I'm delusional, okay? I get like this a lot now. I don't even know what I'm doing."

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

Sophie is no longer kicking the door. But her voice drifts up and down the balcony. Police sirens are drifting, too.

"Wow, they're fast today." His vision is pinholing, the blood pounding behind his eyes. "They're usually slower than the pizza guy."

The demon grabs his arms. It's like he's holding a glass doll. "Hey, hey. Stay with me. Are you in a lot of pain?"

Jack shrugs his boney shoulders, then he nods, then he starts to cry. Salty, gross, they're the kind of tears that fall the wrong way. His eyes are sunken and swollen at the same time. Wow. Such a brave and strong little warlock.

The demon rolls his eyes and sighs. "You are the most pathetic human I have ever seen. Come here." He embraces Jack, pulls him close. "Just hold on tight. I can help you get out of here, get away from the police. And I can help you live, too. I offer my help in exchange for your soul. Are you sure you agree to these terms?"

"Yeah, I agree…"

What else can he say? This apartment is a prison. Cracked walls and pipes that smell like sulfur. The fan lies motionless on the floor. This apartment is a box of death. It reminds him of everything he will never have:

No family. Sophie and her mother have 3 meter races across the balcony. When it rains and the pimpled concrete is dotted with water. Barefoot, they run over the wet bumps, falling into each other. At the end of the day, their toes are red and swollen. So they go inside for ice pops and a cold bath. Jack can always hear them laughing through the wall. His sister died years ago.

No love. The couple next door fucks every morning. Jack sees them every so often smoking on the balcony. The girl drives an old Volkswagen that smells like crayons. One time, she asked Jack to help her carry up some groceries. He opened the door and almost gagged. The boy drives nothing. He is driven. He screams and moans every morning. Jack's never heard the girl scream, all she does is pant and growl. But gods, their sex must be so good. Fingernails rake the wall, bed springs shriek, and the beautiful fuckdoll of a boy shrieks right along with them.

No health. Tiles are so thin you can hear everything. Jack's heard arguments about life and death, about cancer and heart disease and rare, incurable diseases. He's heard Grandma fall and break her hip, he's heard Uncle shoot himself, and he's heard Sister overdose on cold medicine. Of course, he'll never meet these people. They are his imaginary family. And they always seem to pull through. Grandma gets a walker, Uncle comes home from the ER, and Sister keeps track of the pills she's taken. They all get to live. Hooray, a happy ending. So where is Jack's happy ending? He falls and bleeds and no one comes to save him. All he has is a three-legged cat that looks at him with eyes full of pity.

He hates that look. Even the cat knows he's dying.

There you have it. The Holy Trinity of things Jack will never have. Maybe he can turn them into a Demonic Trinity. Maybe this demon's warm hands can rearrange the pieces. The claws lace together, create a new kind of prison. Heat grabs hold of Jack's body. The kind of heat that comes from a stovetop. Painful, stupid, tempting. Sophie would reach for this heat. Jack is reaching for it, too. He grips the demon's shoulders and shuts his eyes. The darkness is bathed in red.

And he feels… relief? Numbness? Everything just feels so warm and nice. Jack is a child clinging to a monster's neck.

The neck cracks. "Okay. Since you've agreed, I can help you now. What do you want me to do first?"

"Get me out of here."

"I can do that. Where do you want to go?"

"I don't care. Anywhere that isn't here."

"Sure." He stands up and Jack flinches, legs dangling out from under him. "Uh, you might want to lock your legs around me. Yeah, yeah like that. I don't want you falling off while I'm flying."

Jack's stomach lurches. "F-Flying?"

"Well, yeah, I do have wings."

"Will you be able to carry me? You're not that much bigger than me."

"Okay, first of all, I'm at least a few inches taller than you." He rolls his shoulders, cracks his knuckles. "Second, I can carry anything. Trust me."

"Fine. It's not like I have a choice."

"Just keep telling yourself that." He starts bouncing on his feet. The leathery wings unravel, knocking over an empty flower vase and an expired carton of milk. His breathing is slow and deep. It seems to come from everywhere, not just his lungs. Every muscles expanding and shrinking.

Jack imagines the tendons bundled like straws. Bad move, because now he's nauseous again. He buries his face in the demon's skin and mutters a spell. Something for calmness, something for sleep. It's weak. Summoning the demon sapped all his strength.

"Luckily for you, I don't get tired that easily." The demon's laugh is awkward. He ruffles Jack's hair and cracks his knuckles again. "The cops are knocking on your door, I hear them. I'm gonna use a smokescreen and fly right past them."

"Why can't you use some demon magic or something?" The spell might have been weak, but Jack's words are already slurring.

The demon laughs again. "Why can't you shut up for a few minutes? You don't need to question my methods. Maybe I just want to stretch my wings, ever think of that?"

"No."

"So you should shut your eyes, then. Shut them and go to sleep or something. You'll have a lot of thinking to do once we get out of here, but for now, I'll do the thinking." The summoning circle is still intact. Sloppy, but effective. "Oh yeah, can you break this circle for me? Unless you want the police to find us like this."

"Sure, sure. Hold on." Jack dangles his legs. The demon leans over and lets him smudge the chalk without unhooking his hands. There's no way he can stand on his own right now. His legs are beyond Jell-O. They're pillars of water. Shaky atoms barely fused together.

The door is no longer fused to its hinges. Police bust it open, shouting about a bomb. Sophie's mother is screaming next door, "I said there wasn't a bomb, you dumb fucks!"

Come on, Sophie's Mom, they won't listen. You called 911 and said something about a "power outage" and a "bomb". These cops are pros at selective hearing. No wonder they came so fast.

Armored bodies pour into the apartment. Bulletproof vests and heavy boots. They've been polished for the occasion, how classy. Most of them are wearing masks. But as the idiots at the bar would say, "Aren't we all wearing masks?"

"Is this the military or the police?" The demon whispers it just as the red dots appear on his forehead.

Jack won't turn around, but his eyes are still wide open. "Just get me out of here."

"Don't let go."

A cop screams, "What the fuck is that?!" and the demon conjures his smokescreen.

Dust and black ash rise up from the floor. That's kind of cool. Jack glances sideways at the clouds of ash. It all looks so natural. Thick and swirling, there's nothing strange about it. Except for the demon that stretches out his hand and the warlock clinging to his neck.

Questions pop up. How are you doing that? What are your powers? Where did you come from? Oh, and what is your name?

But Jack's timing has always been off. They need to get away from the police first.

Red dots dance across the smoke. Armored bodies knock against other armored bodies. And those polished boots are covered in dirt. What a shame. A cop without a mask squints and coughs. Looking through the ash, they see something. A glimpse of a claw, a tooth, a wing. But then it all vanishes into the darkness.

And the cop's bulletproof vest is sliced in two. Something rockets past, cutting up vests and skin. No one dies, but no one can really live, either.

Who can live after seeing the thing in the darkness? The thing that everyone fears. It's a beast, a monster. A demon with death wrapped around its neck.


	3. That Time Bones Looked Like Toothpicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I updated faster than last time xD, updating about a month and a half later instead of three months later... such an accomplishment.
> 
> But seriously, I am happy to post this new chapter for you. 
> 
> Just some warnings, like previous chapters there is lots of blood and swears and smutty-ness, and I'm making up this magic system as I go, oh and there is also a dead deer and creepy shit in this chapter, so be warned.
> 
> Enjoy...

Bones look remarkably like toothpicks, jutting forward and poking through paper-thin skin. They come to a sharp point. They jab at other people and push them away. Jack's bones are soft and white and angled. If he breathes too hard, he'll crumble into dust. The demon's bones are hard and black and solid. You could use his femur as a sword. They're pressed together, black and white, hard and soft. Their skins sliding over each other. The demon feels the ribs against his stomach. Jack feels the collarbone against his wrists. Locked together, forced together by the shadows. They're flying at the speed of night, the time it takes for you to blink your eyes or check under your bed for monsters.

Jack keeps his eyes shut. He sees nothing, absolutely nothing. Just shades of black lapping over each other likes waves. He thinks of the blood swirling around in the toilet. When he first got sick, he'd stumble into the bathroom at three in the morning, coughing and spitting. The blood was red at first. Normal. It spattered the toilet seat and dribbled down his chin, but it didn't scare him. It actually made him feel kind of cool. Like some badass witch nursing his wounds after a fight. When he coughed into his hands, he let the blood dry before washing it off.

But then it got darker. Abnormal. It went from bright red to mauve, from mauve to brown, from brown to black. And he was afraid. Kronos Disease is a death sentence, the kind of death sentence that doesn't feel real. Maybe if you appeal, your charges will be dropped and you'll be taken off death row? So you smile and sit around. You wait for someone to tell you that you're free to go. Bright red blood is pretty cool, after all. Days pass, months fly by, and no one comes for you. Even the executioner forgets your name. And you are left to rot. Slowly, second by second.

Two weeks ago, Jack was standing on a digital scale. The word BAT flashed on and off.

"Bat? The fuck is bat?"

His cat meowed in the next room.

"No, idiot. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking… oh, gods…"

His stomach churned, the edge of his vision going dark. Standing naked on the scale, he felt for the sink. It's cracked and covered in a layer of grime. Hard water turns the porcelain to dust. He really needs to get that fixed.

Jack knew what was happening. A sharp, roving pain in his side, the feeling that something was squirming inside of him. He sagged against the sink, half kneeling half standing. And his pale knees shook and his fingers grabbed at the porcelain and he couldn't see or hear or move his head. His brain pounded like a heart. Fuck, it's like being on fire. This movement of blood through your skull, being able to feel every bend and break in your veins. This nasty twinge in your gut that makes you want to tear your intestines out, makes you cry and bleed and puke and shit yourself.

Jack spent the night with his head buried in the toilet. No strength to raise his head to the sink. Just bones ground to seashell dust. In the morning, his cat brought him four AA batteries. Turns out that BAT stands for low battery. Who knew?

There are a lot of things Jack should have known after being diagnosed. What medicines to take, what foods to avoid. But he'd just lie on his couch, running his fingers over his abdomen. He'd stare at the ceiling fan and scan himself. The collarbone that he can grab with his thumb and index. The sternum that feels closer and closer each day. The ribs that jut out, an exposed fossil. The soft flesh of his stomach that becomes gray and thin. And the dip of pelvis. You can see the outline of his skeleton.

Once, on a sticky afternoon, he went past his pelvis. It's hard to feel sexy when you're sick. His days at the club are over. The patron with the spinning tattoos used to call him Bambi-legs. Damn right, his legs were long and smooth and his thighs bulged when he danced. The patron would grunt and blush whenever Jack slid down the pole. Opening those thighs, fingers splayed across his thong. Jack almost never got an erection while dancing.

His boss slapped him on the back. "Good work, Jackie, you're always bringing in the most money!" He turned to the other dancers, all of them packed into a dressing room. "Ya see why he makes all that cash, boys? He makes it 'cause he's got control. While all those assholes are in the audience trying not to come their pants, he's up there just doing his thing. He's got control, boys. And people come here 'cause they wanna lose control, they wanna feel like the helpless ones. Jackie knows how to do that."

The boys wanted to learn. Boys as old as forty, wearing crow's feet like eyeliner. Boys as young as fifteen, their lips wet and swollen. How do you do it? How do stay so focused? How are you so relaxed?

"Easy. I don't look at anyone. I keep my eyes open, but I don't look at anyone."

A nineteen-year-old cocked his head. "What do you mean? What do you look at when you're dancing? What do you see?"

Jack shrugged. "Whatever I wanna see."

For a warlock, that could be anything. He could see through the eyes of his cat, he could stare at the flames of Hell.

That afternoon, lying silent on his couch, he saw himself grinding against the pole. The patron's pupils growing. Jack stuck his hand into his boxers and grabbed his dick. It was hard. What a surprise. Ever since getting sick, his sex drive was hopeless. A pathetic flatline. Now he was feeling it, the familiar pressure. Before Kronos, he was always getting off. Thus is the life of a socially awkward warlock. Sure, he fucked around with garden witches and sirens and the occasional vampire. A succubus even invited him to a threesome once. But once everyone knew about "the shut-in that angered Father Time", he was done.

No one wants to fuck a sick person. They don't want to break you or use you. No more one night stands, their guilt would kill them. Because what kind of monster would mindlessly fuck a dying man? They think they're being good, moral citizens, but they're not.

They're depriving Jack of normalcy.

That's why he spent thirty minutes groping himself. Couch sticky with sweat, tongue caught between his teeth. Muffled voices drifted through the floor. He arched his back and listened to the slap, slap, slap. It was gentle at first. Careful, Jack, you don't want to break yourself. Then he got tired of waiting. You're gonna die soon, dipshit, just go for it. So he peeled his boxers off and started humping the couch. Poor couch, you are so abused. Jack rode it, grinding into the cushion. Stuck, unstuck, his skin salty with sweat. He held on, hard, looking at nothing and gritting his teeth. He wanted nothing more than for someone to take him from behind.

When Jack came, he saw a glimpse of his cat in the bathroom mirror. Then darkness and a single candle. He came to, panting. For a few minutes, he felt… fine. Wow, it looks like masturbation is the cure. Breaking news, a terminally ill man heals himself by jerking off. A true Christmas miracle.

Five minutes later, his stomach was cramping and he puked all over the coffee table.

So much for feeling sexy.

Those are just memories, though. Shards of glass that he can sift through. The present is much worse; he needs to pay attention. Shadows swoop by, bat wings and TV screens and blacktops. He's flying through darkness, from one black heart to another. Cheek pressed against the demon's chest, he decides to open his eyes. At first, they won't open. They're sown shut.

Black nails trail across his face. "Go ahead. You can look."

Jack looks. It's a blur of dawn and dusk, stripes of black that seem to melt away. Something slices the darkness every so often. Violent shapes of color. A neon blue sign that says CIGAR BAR. Dirty yellow teeth sawed down to jagged points. Red roses wilting beside a headstone. Green traffic lights and orange safety cones. And there goes a grey alligator walking through a parking garage. The demon must be channel flipping. None of these images seem real. Jack recognizes them all.

How long is this going to last?

"We're almost there. I'm just getting a feel for the area."

"Oh." Jack swallows hard. "Getting dizzy. I'm gonna close my eyes…"

"Go ahead."

The colors disappear. Jack returns to darkness, to the shards of memories wedged in his brain. He sees himself playing cards with Sophie. Crooked bangs in her eyes, a pink tiara slipping down her skull. She smiles.

"You got any two's?"

"Uh, yeah. I do."

"Good." She snatches them all away. Her fingers are hooks. All those little fish are tucked behind her grubby hands.

The rain is hot and sticky. It drips down the awning and onto the balcony. They're sitting on the pimpled concrete, playing Go Fish and fanning themselves with the cards. Inside Sophie's apartment, a woman is crying.

Sophie sniffs and pulls at her T-shirt. "Mommy's just upset that she can't drink Coke anymore."

"Huh? She can't drink Coke?"

"Yeah… I, uh, I heard her talkin' about her dealer, her Coke dealer, and how he's like in trouble now."

"Oh." Jack clears his throat and talks louder. Louder than the crying woman. "Well, let's just focus on the game. You're really killing me here. I think you're gonna win."

"Duh! Of course I'm gonna win!" Her laugh is razor sharp, it cuts through the 80% humidity. She's right, she does win.

They play a few more rounds. Jack conjures up a Three Musketeer bar when she's not looking and tosses it her way. The rain falls in clumps, like gobs of blood, and the heat seeps into their skin. When the crying stops, Sophie runs back inside.

"Thanks for playing with me. Maybe next time you'll actually win."

"Yeah, okay." He watches the door slam, and he lies on the concrete, watching the clouds part around the sun.

"Okay, we're here." The memory fades away. Everything goes to shit.

"Huh?"

"We're here, dumbass. Open your eyes." Black nails scratch his face. "Open. Your. Eyes."

And the voice is straight from the seventh circle of hell. Sinful, laden with thorns. It's like a harpy is whispering in his ear.

"The fuck?!" Jack gasps and lurches forward. He hits several things. A side table, a bottle of wine, a wooden floor. Glass shatters and he's lying in a puddle of wine and blood. He blinks. "Where… where the hell am I?" Another blink.

Drops of wine and blood drift upwards, towards the ceiling. It's made of wood, too. And the drops are sucked into the roof, the glass shards somersaulting into the sky. His magic is getting away from him. When he's scared or nervous, it tends to do that. It seeps out of his skin like sweat, infecting everything around him. But why does everything float?

Now the table is against the wall. A plastic palm tree is painted into a corner. Jack lies on the floor, looking up at the ceiling and trying not to breathe. There's a rocking chair behind him, he must have fallen out of that.

"Hey, you need to relax, okay? Just calm down. You're safe now, you're away from all those cops."

"T-That's nice, but where am I?"

"Stop making everything float and I'll tell you." There's that harpy voice again. It comes from the mouth of a shadow, a shadow with green eyes and dragon scales. The demon crouches over him, blinking and licking his lips. "Wow, in the light, you really look like shit."

"Ha ha, very funny. Now answer my question, where are we? Or how about telling me your name?"

The demon laughs. "You're just full of questions. You must be feeling better."

Now Jack laughs. "My stomach hurts and my head's killing me, but that's beside the point. I just want to know things now. Now that you've actually proven yourself…"

"Proven myself? As if I have to do that. You're the one that summoned me, you sick little warlock. But I'll tell you my name if you promise to stop all this magic shit."

"I'll try."

"Okay. Well, I'm Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III. It's a family name. You can call me Hic."

Jack laughs again, blood dribbles down his mouth. "That's a stupid name."

"Whatever. At least I'm not stupid enough to sell my soul to a demon."

"Very true…" Closing his eyes, he wills gravity to work again. Shards of glass fall around him, a piece gets lodged in his hair. "There. Happy?"

"Yeah. I prefer not having broken glass dangling over my head." Hic bounces on his heels and licks his lips again. "So… tell me your name again?"

"Jack."

"Jack. I like that." He cocks his head, brown hair in his eyes. "So, Jack, how are you?"

"Still dying, but I'm okay."

"Good, good. Can you stand? I want to show you around."

"Uh, sure." He reaches for Hic. The demon pulls him up, black nails scraping his arms. The world goes dark for a moment. Those few seconds after standing, splotches of ink bleeding into your eyes. The darkness lasts for 2.5 seconds. There's pain in those two breaths. A knot in his stomach, a knife in his mind. It's all a brick on his heart, forcing his body to the ground. But he stands up and shakes the pain away. This is how you live. You learn to deal with it.

"Okay. I'm fine."

"No you're not." Hic grabs his wrists. "Look around."

The ink dries and he can see the cabin. Flat, heavy panels cover the wall and floor. Oak maybe? Or something else. Jack smells melaleuca, there must be a few paperbacks outside. There's the hint of hot rain, the humidity that settles in your lungs. Jack sees it from the outside in. The cypress trees and the air plants that throttle their throats. A manmade lake full of gators, a flock of mourning doves. Then the cabin with its rotted wood and sagging roof. Windows are boarded up with hurricane shutters, Jack can see handprints on the glass. It's a small house, cabin, trailer park thing. Not much furniture, just a table, a rocking chair, and a bed. The kitchen is jammed into one corner, right next to a plastic palm tree. But there are real plants, too, potted ferns and fichus and Venus fly traps. So many cracked mason jars stuffed with sandy dirt. It's cluttered, but not dirty. All of the kitchenware is made of steel and cast iron, Jack smells them. The just out of the dishwasher smell, expect there is no dishwasher and those bowls haven't been moved in months.

The dust can't settle because of the draft. Weeds grow in the holes in the floor. If you stick your face against the wall and squint, you can see outside.

No A/C. At least there's a bathroom. Sure, its' the size of a janitor's closet, but that's good enough. Jack just needs somewhere to puke in peace.

He looks up. Spider webs stick to the ceiling, look at the big black spiders with the empty eyes. Jack's always liked spiders. They kill the mosquitoes that are drawn to his blood for some reason. He feels one on his neck.

Slap! And it's gone. "Shit. This place is a dump."

Hic leans against the gas stove. "It's better than your apartment."

"Yeah… I don't think so."

He rolls his eyes. "At least you don't have cops banging at your door. And you don't have to listen to people arguing or fucking all night."

"I guess." Jack spins in slow circles, his hand still on his neck. "But where are we? I get that I'm in a shitty cabin, but where is this?"

"Outside of town. Away from all the crap that makes people like you crazy." Hic sits on the stove, absentmindedly conjuring tiny flames. On, off, on, off. The burners glow blue. "I spend most of my time up north, like way up north, so I didn't have much time to scope this place out. What we were doing, after we left your apartment, that's called shadow jumping. I was moving from shadow to shadow, trying to find a safe place for you."

"Can people see you when you do that?"

"No. Sometimes they just see a ripple in their shadow, or a reflection in their bathroom mirror. It's subtle enough not to catch attention. But don't you know anything about demons? You did summon me."

Doesn't mean Jack knows anything about demons. Sighing, he sits in the rocking chair. "Uh, no, not really. That's not my area of study. I'm more into spellcasting, conjuring, sourcing, stuff like that. And I'm pretty fucking clairvoyant, too. But demons aren't my thing, they're too… weird."

"You have a familiar?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it?"

Jack looks down at his hands. The lines looks deeper than ever. "I've gotta call him. You left him back in the apartment."

"So call him." Hic keep turning the burners on and catching the blue flames in his hands.

"I can't when I'm tired. Gods, give me some time. It's hot and I'm itchy."

"The mosquitoes are pretty bad. That's why I like the north better." He cracks his knuckles. "No one lives here, by the way. At least, I don't think they do. We're right at the edge of the swamp, so we shouldn't get much foot traffic. You can recover or die in peace."

Jack's stomach drops. "Wait a second, die? I thought we made a deal. You'd fix me in exchange for my soul or whatever."

Hic laughs. "I can't just fix you, man. I'm not the devil, I don't have that much power."

Jack's shaking his head, his hands running down his face. "Sounds like you don't have any power."

"I've got plenty power, okay, buddy? If you saw my real power, you wouldn't be able to handle all this raw demon-ness. But the thing is, what you have is literally a death sentence. No one ever recovers from Kronos Disease. Father Time himself marks you for death."

"Oh okay, so everything I did was useless." As if this is a surprise. Jack was almost expecting it. He spits a clump of blood onto the floor. "I just sold my soul to a demon for no reason. What're you gonna do? Make me chicken soup and read me bedtime stories until I die?"

"I could do that, if you want me to. But I can do something better, something much better." Hic hops off the stove, his wings tucked behind him. He grabs the rocking chair by both arm rests. "I can strike a deal with him."

Okay, this is a little too close. Cold breath against Jack's face, green eyes boring into his skull. "W-Who?"

"Who do you think, dipshit? Father Time."

"But… but he's not real. It's a metaphor for the disease. You know, it takes all of your time away, so it's like you're cursed by Kronos."

Hic rolls his eyes, tongue running over his teeth. "You're a warlock and you can't possibly imagine Father Time being real?"

"Not really."

"Then you're a bigger idiot than I thought." He hangs his head and looks up through his bangs. "Come on, Jack, you're not really an idiot."

Jack swallows hard. "Okay, so I'll pretend that I believe you. If you're right, I just made a deal with a demon so he could make a deal with someone else. Sounds pretty stupid to me."

"Mortals can't deal with Father Time. He wouldn't ever talk to you. But, lucky for you, he'll talk to me. We just have to find him. He's very, very good at hiding."

"You don't know where he is."

"No. But we can find him. And in the meantime, I'll take care of you." Hic cups his face with both hands. "I'll make you feel better."

"Uh, okay."

"What do you want me to do first? I have lots of power, I can do anything."

Jack coughs. "Except cure me."

"Well, yeah. But just answer the question already. What do you want?"

What does Jack want? Lots of things. He wants to be healed, he wants his insides to stitch themselves back together. He wants his cat back. He wants his leather-bound notebook full of made up spells. He wants to fuck, too. He wants someone to fuck him so hard that he forgets about the pain. He wants to play cards with Sophie and watch the rain drip down the awning. And then he wants to take energy from the universe and turn it into something. Steal a pound of flesh and turn it into flames. With every spell he casts, he rips atoms from their homes. That's the kind of magic he likes. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be transformed. Scanning himself in the middle of the night, scanning the Earth for sources of energy. When he finds one, he siphons all the power away.

Patrons used to slip dollar bills into his G-string. He would turn them into butterflies before their very eyes. Then he'd catch one and crush it in his fist. The more sadistic patrons drooled when Jack shattered the wings.

So yeah, he wants a lot of things. He wants his sex drive back. But for now, there is only one thing. One thing that will make him happy.

He places a hand on his abdomen, just below his ribcage. "Put your face here. Your skin is really warm and, I don't know, soothing? I just, I feel like shit. I don't need anything fancy."

Hic blinks. "You want me to be a hot water bottle?"

"Yeah. That asking too much?" Jack spits the last part. Tears prick at his eyes. "Forget it. You just want to do cool demon shit or whatever. Sorry this job isn't exactly glamorous, sorry I don't wanna go out and lynch Father Time right now."

He tries to stand up but Hic pushes him back down. Gently, oh so gently. "No, no, it's not asking too much. Relax, warlock. I'm not above being a hot water bottle." Hic reaches under his shirt. The black nails tickle his stomach. "Here?"

"Yeah…"

The demon presses his cheek against Jack's skin. Gods, it feels good. Warm waves of heat that radiate through his body. It really is like having a hot water bottle. Jack wants to curl around him and fall asleep.

That's what does.

He sleeps for three hours, maybe four. No dreams. Just darkness mixed with glimpses of his apartment. He's seeing through his cat's eyes, pupils as thin as toothpicks. Good cat, you're hiding from the mean police officers. The apartment's been ransacked. Black numbers written on yellow paper are pinned everywhere. Evidence markers. Caution tape bars the door. Of course, it looks like the home of a cultist. The summoning circle is still there, so is his stash of candles and herbs. The water bottles in his fridge are filled with potions and animal parts. You're a real urban witch, Jack, a real piece of work. The papers will be all over this. Those reporters will get all hot and bothered. Fucking vultures.

There are footprints on the floor. His cat meows and sits in the middle of the circle. Another meow, a sad empty call.

Don't worry, kitty, Jackie will save you.

"I'll… save… you…"

"I don't need saving, buddy."

Oh, it's Hic.

Jack's covered in cotton sheets. They must be five thread count, six at the most. Not that he's used to better. Back home, his sheets were always stained. Now they're white and thrown over his head. It's a cave of sweat and melaleuca. Damn, that smell is so strong. He peeks out, bunching the sheets beneath his chin.

"Hic?"

"Yeah, I'm here. You fell asleep, so I thought I'd put you to bed. You could use a few hours of sleep, or maybe a few years."

He tries to laugh, but ends up coughing. "F-Funny."

"Thanks."

Jack can hear his voice, but all he sees is the wall. The holes in between the wooden slats. "Where are you?"

"Turn your head, dipshit."

Hic is standing at the gas stove, frying pan in hand. Smoke rises from the burners, grey and swirling. It smells husky and sweet. Hic's wings drag behind him, his scales are dark and wet. Has he been outside? He's wearing jeans, that's new. A faded pair of Wranglers with tattered hems. He cut a hole in the back so his tail can slip through.

"Why are you wearing jeans? You weren't wearing anything earlier."

"Oh, I found them under the bed, in a chest." He pulls them up by the waist, they're a little big on him. "Turns out someone might actually live here."

"Great."

"But they're not here now so relax." With a flick of his wrist, the pan starts to sizzle. "You like deer?"

Jack swallows a clump of blood that's been creeping up his throat. "As an animal or as dinner?"

"Dinner."

"Sure. My dad used to take me hunting. But I don't know if I could keep that down right now."

"You need to eat something." The pan sizzles again. A hunk of deer meat slaps a cast iron plate. "We have a limited amount of time to cure you and you need to keep your strength up. So eat the deer."

Jack's mouth waters. Pink blood mixed with saliva. He tries to swallow, but it drips down his chin. He wipes it away. "Fine. I'll eat the damn thing. Don't be mad when I throw up all over the bed."

"Just eat it."

When Hic turns around, Jack chokes on his own spit. The demon's covered in blood, trails of red running up and down his chest. The Wranglers are clean.

"I get a little excited when I hunt." He puts the plate on the bed. "Enjoy."

A circle of silver amidst the white. It's heavy and big, bigger than Jack's face. Heavy enough to hold the sheets down, to make them stretch and groan.

No, that's just Hic groaning as he lies on the bed, back arching against the cotton. He puts his hands behind his head and yawns. "Eat. You need to eat."

"FFFFine." Jack puts the plate between his legs. They're tucked under the sheets, these two mummified lumps that tremble when he breathes too hard. Hic's not a bad chef, he'll give him that. The venison smells amazing, all rough and gamey. Jack's mouth starts to water. There's a pull in his stomach, a gnawing in his throat. He doesn't feel sick, he feels… hungry. Like he could eat anything.

He's pulling the venison apart. It's white with fat and pink with blood, the meat a pale brown. He shreds it with his teeth, the juice dripping down his chin. And he's never been hungrier, not in his entire life. His stomach is an aching hole, his magic is drained. You never realize how empty you are until someone points it out.

Now he's shoving warm meat down his throat. Blood runs down his wrists, smears his lips, and pools on the plate. His heart pounds in his ears. Every inch of his body aflame, the hole growing bigger and bigger. There are teeth chewing on his insides, but he doesn't stop. He'll eat until he's about to burst, skin stretched across his ribcage. This is a feeding frenzy, a feast for the soul. Blood fills his reservoirs. More, more, more.

Try to take another bite, but it's gone. All he has are shaking hands covered in blood and the gnawing at the back of his throat. Like fire slowly dripping down his esophagus. He needs more. More food, more energy, more magic. The gators are snapping and they need to be fed. He leans over Hic, eyes wide and bloodshot.

"I'm still hungry. So hungry that it hurts."

Hic sighs. "I figured. You've been sitting on your ass for so long, vegetable-style, and now your body knows what it's been missing. It's tasted red meat."

"You did something to it, didn't you?"

He grins. "What? The deer? Maybe. I need you alive, okay? I can tell you're powerful, you just need someone to pick you up every once in a while."

"And this is your way of picking me up? By feeding me some kind of bewitched deer steak that makes me act like a fucking animal?" Jack shakes his head, the blood rushing to his brain. "Like, gods, I'm so hungry and I just… I wanna fuck everything."

"Oh, really?"

It's the way he says 'oh, really', his mouth forming a perfect circle. Lips wet with blood and rain, his tongue running over his teeth. It's a cruel joke, that's what it is. Jack's dick strains against his boxers. Now his insides are pulsing, the hunger tangles with the desire. It's a weird feeling. A nasty stomachache overshadowed by a hunger that just won't go away overshadowed by a need to fuck a demon's mouth.

Jack falls back against the sheets, panting. He smears blood all over the cotton.

Hic is up, cracking his back and knuckles. "You know, sex is a powerful thing. You can do a lot of things with sex, make it part of a ritual, use it to summon things, see the future…"

"You're making that up." His smile is so fake. "You just want me to fuck you."

Hic shrugs. "Not really. I'm trying to give you some helpful tips, that's all. 'Cause I didn't do anything to the venison, you're just desperate for something. For solid food, for a good fuck, for power. People like you need a steady supply of power." He steps on the holes in the floor, dancing across the wooden planks without looking down. "You're like a vampire, you can't go long without sustenance. But instead of blood, you drink magic. You drink it straight from the Earth. That's what you do, right?"

Jack nods. He sees it in his dreams, his lips pressed against the dirt. Sucking the sweet syrup from the depths, from the bowels of the planet. Rivers of magic flow through the bedrock, past velociraptor bones and spearheads. Hic's right, he needs power.

Replenish yourself, Jack, fill up every nook and cranny. You need the energy to summon your familiar. You need magic to flow freely through your veins. No more midnight binges, sudden bouts of spellcasting that escape through your fingertips. You need to purge yourself of all this shit, of the apartment with the peeled paint. Your clock is ticking and you finally have a chance. So get up and go running through the swamp. Go talk to the crows that sit on the power lines. Find a power source deep within the ground and feed the gators. For the love of all the gods, do something.

 

In the closet-sized bathroom, the tub is already filled with blood. Hic must have buried the deer carcass outside. This demon is smart, he knows the rituals. No runes, no sigils, just a tub full of blood and a naked warlock shivering in the cold.

Hic shuts the door behind him. "Take your time. Do whatever weird thing you've gotta do."

Jack laughs and rubs his goosebumps. "How do you renew yourself, Hic?"

"Demons don't 'renew' themselves." His voice floats throat the wooden door. "I'm given power and I use it. That's how I work. But everyone works differently. I'm interested to see what you do."

"Nothing special. It's like going to the spa." Jack looks down at his body. His hard dick, his pale, skinny legs. Pathetic. "I'll feel better for a little while, like humans do when they come home from rehab. But then I'll just get worse again. There isn't really much point to it."

"Of course there's a point. Feel good now so you can feel shitty later." Hic's wings brush against the door. The sound is grating, sandpaper on a chalkboard.

Jack shrugs.

"Don't shrug me off, you big baby warlock."

"Okay, the door is closed. How did you know I shrugged?"

"I can hear your bones moving." He stands up and his wings slap the knob. "Now go bathe in your deer blood already. I want to see you with a spring in your step, a twinkle in your eye!"

"Idiot…"

Hic's laughter is fading when Jack steps into the tub. Damn, that feels weird. It's been such a long time, he forgot how heavy blood can be. How heavy, thick, and smooth it can be. It's honey, or maybe molasses, full of sugar that settles on your tongue. Jack breathes in the metallic taste. Blood tastes like cast iron, cast iron tastes like blood. Dark red globs roll over his feet, his ankles, his shins. Now he's sitting in the thick syrup, knees tucked up to his chin. For a moment, he feels like he's gonna pass out, but he doesn't.

Warm blood cradles his body. Two seconds go by. Two pain free seconds. He smiles when lies down, his face disappearing into a sea of red.


	4. That Time Gators Tails Tasted Like Chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm updating early-ish? Kind of? Hopefully I haven't made anyone wait too long ^^".
> 
> But anyways, yay the next update is here! Plot-wise, things are gonna start getting crazy soon, so heads up...
> 
> A warning for this chapter: very, very NSFW and, like usual, there's creepiness and nastiness. But there's plenty of Hiccup taking care of poor little Jack and other cute things. 
> 
> Next update coming soon~
> 
> Enjoy

Gator tails taste remarkably like chicken. Chopped into three even pieces, blood pooling on the cutting board. There's no need to cook them. Hic swallows them whole, one, two, three. They slide down, all rough and leathery against his throat. The food here is… weird. Up north, there's fish and sheep and barrels of ale. Down here, there's skinny deer and alligators and water full of mosquito larvae.

Jack's been in the tub for a while. Hic goes outside, then comes back in. He drifts through the swamp, hunting and pulling up clumps of night blooming jasmine.

He's hungry. Shadow jumping is exhausting, his wings are sore. With each kill, his strength returns. Taking care of a sick warlock is gonna be a pain in the ass. He can feel it. Might as well stock up on the essentials. Thick slabs of deer meat, lean hindquarters and fatty hearts. Gator tails, gator bodies, gator heads. Hic likes to suck on the algae-covered teeth. He salts some of the carcasses and hangs them in a woodshed. An abandoned little thing, he found it a few miles away from the cabin. The other pieces are wrapped in tin foil and shoved into the freezer. But humans can't just eat meat, right? They need other shit, too. So Hic collects cat-tails and large American cranberries and dogtooth violets. He jumps to another part of town and finds a private orange grove. Some fieldworker almost screams when he sees a horned shadow in the darkness. But it's just a trick of the light, a symptom of exhaustion and underpaid hours. There's no way in hell a demon just stole oranges, right?

If Hic could shapeshift, this would be a lot easier. No one gave him that power, though. The devil drew his name out of a hat and said, "Shadow jumper."

Now he's stuck foraging for food while others stroll right into Publix, their forked tongues hidden behind their teeth.

There are herbs growing on windowsills. Cracked pots full of mint and sage. He only takes the plants, leaving the pots behind. The cabin smells like meat and peppermint now. Not a bad combination. Hic sits on the wooden floor and sighs.

"Guess I'm just gonna sit here. Yep. Sit here and wait."

There are stray threads all over his jeans. He counts each one and pulls them out. One hundred, one hundred and one, one hundred and two…

"Holy shit. I can't take it anymore." Groaning, he lies on the floor. Muscles stretch tight, bones pop. His bare skin is covered in freckles and scales and scars. He's an alligator. Maybe he would taste like chicken, too…

So now he's eating gator tails and sitting on the stove. Nails as black as the stove eyes, feet as cold as the empty oven. One, two, three, the tails are gone. Hic sighs again.

He's bored. The nights are hot and sticky, the humidity as heavy as perfume. Cicadas saw their legs together. And they never, ever stop. Hic rolls his eyes and covers his ears. Fucking bugs, I hope your legs fall off. There's nothing to do here, the cabin is creaking and the rain is rolling down the rooftop. Hic stands on the porch, watching the moon. It's fat tonight. Swollen like a hemp seed, swollen like Jack's stomach.

Yeah, Hic's read about Kronos Disease. He knows what it does, how it taints the blood and turns it into tar. How it starts deep in the bowels, moving up into the lungs and throat. And then the blood around your brain starts to turn. It burns red hot, eyes bulging in your skull. It's a slow rejection of the body's blood, of all the natural things in life. Hic likes to read medical journals. The libraries in limbo are always well-stocked. A famous demon named Fishlegs publishes a new journal every few years. They're always about mortal diseases, ranging from human illnesses like scarlet fever to the more magical ones. Hic memorizes the pages.

Page 582 of Volume 2345 describes Kronos Disease. Not much is known, it is a rare disease. But there's enough to make your stomach turn. So much blood, so many different ways to bleed. You can cough up blood, you can puke blood, you can shit blood, you can bleed through your eyes. Thank the gods Jack isn't doing that yet.

Right now, Jack is dead in the water. Buried beneath blood, he doesn't breathe or blink. The bathroom is silent, the smudged mirror reflecting the bare wall. There's nothing here. Just the smell of wood and heat, the color white draped over everything. A lightbulb dangles from the ceiling, there are a few stripped wires. Jack lies on his back, only his knees are visible. Pale hands grip the edge of the tub. Under the surface, his eyes are wide open.

No heartbeat. No movement. Just a white, rigid body that could be made of wax. But of course, he's more than a wax doll.

He's a fuck doll. A burning brain and hot veins, his lips dripping with saliva. Long Bambi-legs, don't you forget it. He's the talk of the town, the boy that everyone wants to be. He had muscles once, maybe he can have them again. A toned ass that you could smother yourself in, a stomach like a washboard. As he sleeps in the tub, he dreams of sex. It's an encounter that never happened. Or maybe it did happen and he just forgot.

Whatever it is, it's amazing. A faceless, nameless person writhes beneath him. Jack fucks them hard and they claw at his back with fingernails made of lead. Tangles of hair, tangles of spit. They frantically grind against each other until Jack's insides are burning. Really, really burning. They're in the middle of a chalk circle, candles blazing around them. Someone is panting in his ear. Turn around and there's another person. This one has yellow eyes and a dick that makes Jack's mouth water. With fingernails made of onyx, they flip him over and take him from behind. And the other is kissing his face and stroking his temples. Another is rubbing his spine. Soon there are a dozen of them. Some beg to be penetrated, others fuck his open mouth with their fingers. Hands run up and down his body. Run, rove, slap, stroke. He's on his back and they're licking his abdomen. The skeletal highway is full of fingers and tongues. From collarbone to pelvis.

Jack shudders and moans. Someone sits on his dick and starts to ride him. Gods, their inside is so wet and warm. Their outside is dry and cold. They thrust, their knees scraping the floor, while someone else kisses Jack on the mouth. Kisses taste like rose petals, dead, dried rose petals. Jack moans against their lips, his face burning. But then pain blooms in the center of his body. Sudden, sharp, it's the feeling of blood curdling in your intestines.

Shivering, he tries to sit up. Fingernails made of ebony push him back down.

"No… stop… I-I'm gonna be sick."

"No. You're not."

The voice is everywhere. In his head, his bones. They speak at once. They hold him down and kiss his ribcage. A pair of sweet, heavy lips drag across his stomach. Someone kisses him on the mouth again and that wakes him up.

Now he's floating in a pool of stars. From a wax doll to a fuck doll to a magic doll. The sky stretches out, full of fat stars and meteors. Jack lies in shallow water, a pair of antlers next to his head, a bird skeleton at his feet. Weeds grow in the spaces between his fingers. What is this place?

Silence.

Cold.

A heat that pulses through the Earth.

Jack can feel the energy flowing into him. River of magic that mix with his veins and rush into his brain. He calls them all forward, these tiny branches of power. They're hiding in the bedrock, next to the velociraptor fossils and broken spearheads. Jack lets it fill him up, every nook and cranny.

The voice returns. "This is the grace of the gods."

Jack laughs. How dare they speak of grace? This isn't grace, this is a cruel joke that will bite him in the ass. Why give him strength when he's about to die? What's the point?

But still, it's tempting. He can't even imagine what a life without pain means. He'll finally be able to sleep at night. No more constant stomachaches or headaches that make his teeth grind. No more cold sweats or vertigo or waves of nausea that leave his sheets stained for weeks. No more attacks. No more episodes. No more comments about fucking Father Time.

This won't cure him, though. Deer blood and magic can only do so much. He'll run on adrenaline for a while, and then the pain will triple and he won't be able to move. And one sticky afternoon, he'll lie down and never get up. Blood will pour from his body, his eyes will bulge.

Goodbye, Jack.

But that isn't happening yet. Right now, he's soaking up the magic. It pushes its way through his body. It fights against the clotted blood that settles in his stomach.

Remember, Jack, you have to purge yourself of this evil. You have to get all this shit out.

"F-Fuck." It's the worst feeling yet. Like someone's scrambling his insides, his stomach is rocking, his intestines are being ripped apart. Gods, fuck, gods make it stop. Make it stop!

Jack sits bolt upright in the tub, gasping and choking on the deer blood. It's everywhere, painted all over his body. Bangs plastered to his face, he can't see a thing. Not a fucking thing. But that doesn't matter. He climbs out of the tub and buries his head in the toilet. The blood is thicker than ever, it settles at the bottom of the bowl.

Jack wipes his mouth. "Disgusting." And then he throws up again.

It has to be disgusting. The ritual purges him of everything bad. Everything evil. Good health doesn't come cheap.

Two hours later, he rests his cheek against the warm wooden floor.

"Fucking finally…"

It's all gone. The black blood is somewhere in the pipes. At least, for now. When this supernatural adrenaline rush ends, he'll be right back where he started. Whatever. Feel good now so you can feel shitty later, right?

He closes his eyes and the bathroom door opens.

"Uh, Jack? You okay?"

"Oh, so now you check on me? It's been hours, asshole."

Hic shrugs. "Whatever. I don't know how long these things take. And when you started puking… well, there's no way in hell I'm gonna watch that."

"Geez, thanks." Jack sighs and rolls onto his back. "You're such a great friend."

"I never said I was your friend." Hic's claws drag across the floor. He lifts Jack up with both hands. "So, how are you? Feel refreshed?"

"I will in the morning. I feel pretty shitty now, like, everything's sore."

"That sucks." His eyes rove over Jack's body. "At least your sex drive's back. I mean, just look at your dick."

"What are you… shit." Jack's tries to cover himself but Hic's already wrapping a towel around him.

"Don't worry, it's clean. Mostly. I found it in a cabinet with a bunch of other towels and stuff." He slaps Jack's ass. "And no worries about your junk, man. It happens to everyone with a dick. Now take a cold shower or something. You're filthy."

"Yeah, I know." When he blinks, he hears the blood crack. "I'll be out soon. Uh, sorry to make you wait."

"It's fine. I've got plenty of shit to do, plenty of stuff to cook. I bet you're hungry."

Jack shrugs. "Not really. I'm just exhausted, my throat hurts, and it feels like someone beat my stomach with a mallet."

"Then I'll make you something else."

"You don't have to make me anything, Hic."

"Uh, yes, I do." He leans against the doorframe, claws tapping the wood. "I'm under contract to make you feel better. And the sooner you feel better, the sooner we can look for Father Time."

"Sounds like you've got a grudge against him."

Gods, look at those green eyes. Squinting, blazing, full of some unholy light. Hic licks his lips. "Just take a shower, Jack."

So Jack takes a shower.

There's no shower curtain, just cold ivory and rusted steel. The faucet stutters, the pipes shake. Jack stands beneath the spray. A weak stream of scalding water that drips down his body. Over shoulders and ribs and thighs. It leaves red marks on his skin, but he doesn't care. No matter how he turns the knob, the water won't get any colder. He just stands there and stares at the drain, watching the water and blood mix together. The air smells like copper. His body smells like musk and sweat. Like the red rawness of a deer's antler. Everything smells like something else.

Lightbulbs smell like darkness.

Wood smells like fire.

And clean sheets smell like shit.

The world is upside down here. In this little wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a swamp. Frogs croak and gators snort and mosquitoes buzz. The moon is fat and dripping tonight, Jack feels it hovering over him. He feels everything. Vibrations in the steel, vibrations in the air. The earth rises up to meet him, it presses against his feet. He lets the water burn him, he lets the blood spiral down the drain. He lets, he lets, he lets.

So many repetitions. Water, steel, rust, blood, sweat, sex, light, darkness. He rubs his hands all over his body. The blood's rushing to his extremities, to his fingers and his toes and his dick. When he strokes it, he shudders. Wow, his sex drive is Lazarus, raised from the dead. The need to fuck is overwhelming. And there's a sexy demon in the next room…

But no, no, Jack can't ask him for sex. Hic isn't Asmodeus or some lust demon with wide hips and thick thighs. He does have a nice ass, though. Oh yeah, that ass is golden. Jack licks his lips and starts stroking his dick. Think about those Wranglers Hic was wearing, the way his ass clenched and curved and rose up out of those baggy jeans. Jack's seen a lot of nice asses in his day. The witch with the rainbow hair had a round ass, thick and juicy and soft to touch. They would roll in her bed, wrapped up in the star-spangled sheets, and Jack would grab her. She'd moan and finger herself while Jack kneaded her flesh. The warlock with golden eyes was skinny and tight. He scratched the floor every time Jack took him from behind. Smooth, gray skin that reminded Jack of marble, he was a living statue.

But those are the asses of the past. Now he has a rock hard demon ass to think about. Kneeling in the ivory tub, he jerks himself off. Knees slip and slide all over the place. His moans echo across the cabin. Who cares if the gators hear him? Hic's busy at the stove, he couldn't care less.

No one cares.

So Jack takes a shower. So Jack jerks off in the tub. And when he's done and his body is clean, he actually believes that he'll be okay. Maybe he'll be okay.

There are mason jars full of mint and sage, red solo cups full of sweet tea. This shit is good for sore throats, right? Red, raw, ripped-up throats that ooze black blood. Jack will need that, right? When humans puke, they mess up their throats. They ruin their teeth and their eyes tear up and their noses run. Hic hates seeing humans in pain. It's so awkward, the way their faces contort. He never knows what to say.

Feel better?

It's okay?

Turn that frown upside down?

Whatever. He doesn't need to say anything. He'll just stand at the stove, the heat pressing against his skin. Limbo's so hot, this is nothing. It feels good, billows of steam rolling over his chest and up his neck. Tongue between his teeth, he carries four jars at a time.

Jack's voice is like sandpaper. "I don't need that many."

Hic rolls his eyes. "You don't know what you need."

"Shut up."

"Whatever."

It's late and Jack's sitting on the bed, wrapped up in a towel. His toes are blue ivory, his fingers are numb. Everything is tired and he wants it all to be done. Hey, that kind of rhymed. Numb and done rhyme, right? Jack could be a poet, his soul is definitely tortured, his mind is definitely broken. He sits on the bed and wears the towel like a hood. Criss-crossed legs and boney arms, a mason jar in his hands.

Hic knows how to make tea. Sage tea, mint tea, iced tea that slides down Jack's throat. He hands Hic the empty jar and takes a full one. Quickly, quietly. And they drink in silence.

Rain strikes the roof, lightning leaks through the shutters. You can hear the world shaking around you. Jack and Hic sit inside this little wooden box, the storm pounding against their home. But, wait, it's not really their home. It's a shack in the middle of the swamp. Some gator poacher probably lives here in the winter. And they're trespassers, a demon and a warlock that don't belong. Still, everything seems… right. Right as the rain that drips through the ceiling.

They drink and sigh and drink some more. When Jack's stomach is full of tea and his eyes are full of sleep, he curls up at the foot of the bed.

"You're like a cat."

Jack's eyes are closed when he answers. "Thanks. I like cats, they're cool."

"Yeah, they're all right." Hic lies next to him, legs stretched out. "I like dogs more, though. I have a three-legged hellhound."

"Hellhound? Like an actual hellhound? The dogs that, uh, guard Hell?"

Hic nods. "Yep. He's big and black and he's got these massive teeth."

"What's his name?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Why? You wanna summon him or something?"

Jack tries to shake his head, but he's too tired. "No. I just like knowing people's names."

"A hellhound isn't a person. It's a hellhound."

"Whatever."

They go back to silence. It welcomes them with open arms. They drift and sigh and drift again. The rain and the lightning hangs over their heads. Look at Hic's eyes, green and full of hellfire.

Jack rubs his eyes. "Uh, thanks for the tea."

"No problem. Did it help?"

"I think so."

He cracks his knuckles one by one. "Good. I aim to please."

"Don't be a smartass." Jack's toes curl into the towel. "Now let me sleep. I've had a rough day."

"More like a rough life."

Jack's laugh sounds like sandpaper. "Don't tell me you've been creepin' on my past?"

"No. I can just tell. I can always tell." Hic pats Jack's shoulder. Once, twice, three times. "Go to sleep, little warlock. You're gonna have to start pulling your weight, and you'll need all the strength in the world."

So Jack goes to sleep.

He hates following orders, but he's feeling submissive today. And the magic is sleeping in his veins. In the morning, he'll be a new person. Happy, alive, powerful. Everyone has bad nights, right? Everyone has bad days. When the sun rises, he'll summon his cat and conjure fire in his palm. He'll turn the wooden panels into gold and create snow with his breath. Then he'll make Hic breakfast, a reminder that he's not useless.

He'll say, "I'm a warlock, bitch. I can pull my weight. I may be a fucking train wreck, but I'm still strong as Hell. Sometimes, I'm stronger than Hell. Sometimes, I'm like a fucking god."

Yeah, that's what he'll say as he flips pancakes and fries bacon. But for now, he'll sleep.

Demons don't really sleep, they hover in between worlds. Hic closes his eyes and sees different places.

The North. White glaciers and black rock, stacks of blue ice that have never been touched by human hands. He sees the snow and the white-hot sun. Look, there's a polar bear and her cubs. See them? You better run before they see you. Hic doesn't have to run, he just flies. The frost cracks when he opens his wings, when he takes to the sky. A group of explorers saw him once. Big deal. They were malnourished and hypothermic, the worst combination. Hic threw them a dead seal and disappeared into the frost.

He could hear them arguing.

"The fuck was that?"

"A demon…"

"No, no, it was a chupacabra."

"No, dumbass, that makes no sense."

They talked about Hic as they bit through the blubber.

The North is faraway. He won't be going back anytime soon. There are other places, hidden caves and foggy islands. Having wings makes it easy to get around.

One time, he flew with the geese when they migrated south. He's followed airplanes into the clouds, kept jumbo jets aloft and pushed drones to the ground. Hic can do whatever he wants. No one ever summons him, the devil never calls him home. The supernatural world forgets about him and his love for humans. That unnatural love that brings him down.

But screw that. Demons can love whatever they want… right? Hell, there's so many questions. Why is he here? What is he doing? Who is Jack and what does he really want? It doesn't matter. None of it fucking matter. All Hic has to do is help Jack and find Father Time. Maybe things will be different this time, maybe he'll get his wish.

Oh, silly Hiccup. Father Time isn't a genie, remember?

Hic shakes his head. "I don't even care. Just forget it."

He rolls onto his stomach and pretends to sleep.


	5. That Time Pillows Felt Like Sandpaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update... at last.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, everyone, but here it is! I'll try to be faster, I promise ^^".
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy this chapter. Questions are answered, questions are asked, crazy shit happens and Astrid makes an appearance. As usual, there's a warning for blood, violence, and language.

Pillows feel remarkably like sandpaper, coarse and itchy against Jack's skin. He's having a rough night. All of his senses working in overdrive, the blood rushing to his brain. His body is an exposed nerve. The slightest movement gives him whiplash. Sweaty palms dig into the mattress as he sleeps and dreams of fire. Fuck, everything's on fire. Brain boiling in its own water, the fever climbing with each passing hour. And his toes are curled and spastic, twisting the sheets around his feet. There's a sharp pain in the middle of his spine. You can see the outline of his bones through the thin blanket. So many white tubes that hold nerves and marrow. His stomach just feels empty. There's nothing inside. Just darkness and caves full of cold light. All of the magic rests in his fingertips, it dwells in his head and in his toes and in his swollen dick. That's the worst and best part of this. How sensitive he is, how he groans in his sleep and tries to fuck the mattress. White teeth pull at his lower lip, his pink tongue is hot and shiny. And red creeps across his cheekbones. If you were to touch his face, you'd leave white fingerprints behind.

Hot Jack. Red Jack. The kind of Jack that used to roll across the stage. His body warm and ripe like a peach, one of those giant fucking Georgia peaches you buy at Publix. That was part of his brand. He was always tender, always bursting. He'd twist his nipples and cup his balls, moaning into the back of his hand.

The club used to have private events. That's a euphemism for X-rated sex shows starring Jackson Overland. The boss held a raffle every week, waiting at least five minutes to draw the lucky ticket stub. At the end of the month, Jack performed for five to six patrons. Deep in the club, in a back room with velvet walls and tiled floors, he danced naked and fucked himself in front of strangers. Very generous strangers. Their tips were never less than twenty dollar bills.

Jack's favorite move:

He masturbated on his back, driving himself to the edge and gasping for dramatic effect. Then he rolled onto all fours, his tight ass facing the audience. All eyes on him. And he rose up, arching every vertebrae, clenching every muscle. Kneeling on the cold tile, he spread his cheeks and fingered himself. One, two, red, blue. His ass was red from all the slapping, his thighs were blue with bruises. You gotta be tough to dance, asshole. You gotta be strong.

Gods, he was so strong then. Controlling every patron that paid to see him, every witch and warlock and werewolf and fury. One time, a girl with green eyes asked, "Are you a siren? 'Cause, like, you're so memorizing."

He shrugged. "You think I'm a siren? I can be a siren, sure."

But that's all stupid stuff. The past is past, he can never go back to his days as a Georgia peach. Now he's weak and pathetic, writhing around in a bed made of sawdust and cotton sheets.

Hic sits criss-cross-applesauce and watches Jack thrash. Head cocked, eyes narrowed, he sits and stares and says nothing.

What's going on with you? Is this how all witches act? Is this, uh, is this supposed to happen? What is a demon supposed to do about this?

When Jack's fever gets too high, Hic carves chunks of ice out of the freezer and wraps them in cloth. Do-it-yourself ice packs, look how handy Hic is. They melt into Jack's forehead, water sliding down his face like tears. The night goes on and the moon climbs higher, the rain falls harder. Hic cradles Jack. Hic holds Jack close and whispers against his temple. Silly spells, angry curses, soft words of comfort. Jack shivers and mutters about cats and clubs and Georgia peaches.

It's like holding an icicle. This thin white body full of needles of pain. When the shivering stops, Hic leans against the wall, his mind flying north towards the arctic.

Okay, he did not fall asleep. He drifted, that's all. Demons have to be good at tuning the world out. Limbo is dull and ugly and eternity lasts a long time. Hic can dream with his eyes open. He can sift through his ancient mind and relive the past. Early morning flights over Norway, shadow battles in the dead of night. Pick a memory, any memory, and unravel it like a spool of thread.

He's thinking about cumulous clouds when the light hits his face. Thin, white rectangles sneak through the shutters. Look at them dance on the floor. One finds a crack in the wood, another slides across the glass mason jars. The light touches all. The plant stems and leaves, the cast iron plates and the towels made of frayed cotton. Hic rolls his eyes. Fuck this place and its rustic charm.

"Oh, look who's awake."

He flinches. "I wasn't asleep!"

"Whatever." Jack's standing in the middle of the room, his hands covered in charcoal. There's a lot of shit to see. A black summoning circle on the ground, a pound of venison frying on the stove. The pots and pans float in midair, and a stream of water weaves its way through the plants. Jack stands in the middle of it all, a smile on his face. He looks better. No more chills, no more gray, splotchy skin. He's wearing a pair of baggy Levi's. They're rolled up to his calf, clinging tight to his ass. And the green flannel's rolled up to his elbows, his red, scabby elbows that lean against the stove.

Jack's made of random parts, he's some kind of Frankenstein. Scabby elbows and splotchy skin and icy eyes that flicker in the light. There's something different about him, a kind of energy that makes your scalp itch. He's leaking magic, Hic can feel it.

He gets out of bed and stretches his wings. "You look good today. A lot better than yesterday."

"I know. And I feel pretty fucking awesome, too." Jack waves his hand and the frying pan flips. He adds another sigil to the circle. "Like, I know I'm still gonna die, but at least I can function now. Right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good."

Jack looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Is that all you can say? That's good, this is good, everything's good."

Hic shrugs. "I don't know. It's just a, uh, a good day. There's not much else to say." He walks to the edge of the circle, hands running over his abdomen. "It's kind of weird seeing you so…"

"Alive?"

"Yeah." He toes the line. "Where'd you find all this charcoal?"

"Outside. There's an old, rusty barbecue against the house. Someone was gonna have a cookout, I guess." Jack taps his teeth and stares at the circle. "Something's missing."

Hic cracks his knuckles. "Well, don't look at me. I'm not a wizard."

"No shit. Oh, there it is." He adds another sigil. "Back up, Hic."

"What are you doing?"

"Shut up and you'll see." He touches the edge of the circle, his tongue between his teeth. Then he whispers into the air. It's a fairly new summoning spell, a string of Latin words invented by a garden witch that had three thousand butterfly familiars. Familiars are a pain in the ass. They disappear for weeks at a time and creep into your room at night. Jack reaches for his cat, digging through the darkness of his apartment. Under couches and counters, through chinks in the wall. Oh, there it is. It's sitting in the sink, eyes wide and unblinking. It stares into the void… no, seriously, it's looking into the void. That's what cats do, they stare into the void and the void rolls its eyes.

The cat blinks, whiskers twitching when the A/C turns on. Jack nudges its mind.

"Here, kitty, kitty."

It blinks again.

"Yeah, asshole, I'm talking to you. Get over here. I need you."

It yawns and watches its reflection in the bathroom mirror. A sleek ball of fur and muscle, eyes glowing like headlights.

"The police people are looking for you."

Jack's mouth twitches. "I assumed as much."

"They took your toothbrush."

"What the hell? Which one?"

The cat paws an empty Dixie cup. "The red one."

"That was my favorite toothbrush!"

"Just buy a new one. I'll be there soon." It hops off the counter and arches its back. "Oh, and I'm glad you can hear me again. You must be feeling better."

"Not for long."

"Don't be such a Debbie Downer."

"Don't be such a Freddy Fucker."

It rolls its eyes. "Please. I'm the most adorable fucker ever."

Now it's Jack's turn to blink. It's hard and heavy, eyelids scraping against his pupil. Eyelashes are spiderwebs, thick and black and stuck together.

He whispers into the darkness. "Manny… Manny. Come here, boy."

Something wet slips between his teeth. For a moment, he's crying blood, but then he's in the cabin and the sunlight is streaming through the shutters. Manny is sitting in the middle of the summoning circle, black smoke swirling around his tail.

"So that's your familiar? A cat named Manny?"

Jack doesn't respond. He's listening to his breath and opening his eyes. Slowly.

"Uh, Jack?"

"I'm fine, Hic." He rubs his eyes and stands up. "You don't need to constantly worry about me."

"Is that a joke? Yesterday you were puking blood. Who wouldn't worry about you?"

Jack can feel his ears redden. He opens his arms and Manny jumps into them. "People don't need to worry about me…"

"Don't tell people what to do, asshole." Hic is standing behind him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "So that's your familiar? You named it Manny?"

"Yeah, that's what I named him. Feel him, he's really soft."

"Yeah, he is soft. Super soft." He scratches Manny behind the ears, his eyes wandering over Jack's body.

Jack's sharp ribs poke through the cotton shirt, the lines of his body all hard and angular. Gods, he so thin and fragile. When he breathes, his spine shivers. But there's definitely something different about him, a kind of energy that covers him from head to toe. His eyes are wounds, but they're healing. The light reaches into the creases of his skin, into every crack and callus. And he smells like rain and blood, like musk and mint. It all hangs around his head like a haze of mosquito spray.

Hic blinks. Humans are so damn odd, they can look like shit and still be so beautiful. How do they do that?

"Stop staring at me, weirdo." Jack walks to the fridge, Manny riding on his shoulder. "Okay, so I've got my familiar. I've got my health back, sort of. So now what?"

Hic sits on the floor and starts pulling at a weed. "What?"

"What?"

"Wait, no, you asked me first. What are you expecting us to do?"

Jack takes a sip of orange juice. "I just thought we were gonna do something. Look for Father Time, kick ass, take names, that kind of stuff."

"I was just waiting for you to feel better."

"Aww, how considerate."

Hic shrugs. He keeps pulling at the weed, but he never rips it out. It just slides through his fingers, hard and green like plastic. "Just because I'm a demon doesn't mean I can't be nice. But I'm glad you brought it up. We need to hurry if we want to cure you."

"Cure me…" Jack says it slowly, his lips slick with orange juice. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Yep. So let's get to work."

The next few weeks are filled with cups of iced tea and plates of venison. The rain moves through cycles, from wet to wetter to wettest, and the sun hammers the swamp. Hic hunts gators and goes flying through the forest at night. Jack practices his magic, he summons snow flurries and covers the cabin in ice. He uses Manny to creep around the mangroves and the canals, his eyes pale and clouded.

Hic pulls a newspaper clipping from his pocket and pins it to the wall. Then he conjures up more clippings, dozens of images that he's collected over the years.

Jack runs his fingers over the yellowed paper. "Are these supposed to mean something?"

"Look at all the photographs. There's a different person in each one, but they always have the same scar. How many people have a scar like that?"

"What's your point?"

Hic rolls his eyes. "It's him, dumbass. It's Father Time. I've been tracking this asshole for decades. He can shapeshift, but he can't get rid of that scar, the one that cuts straight through his left eye."

"How do you know it's him? Anyone can have that scar, it's not that unique."

His green eyes flash red. "No, it is unique. I've memorized all the lines and angles of that scar. I gave it to him, and I remember carving out his eye with my claws."

That's all Hic will say about it. Jack's too smart to pry.

They start searching the immediate area, the swampland and the empty hunting cabins. Hic knows a lot more than he says, but he keeps his mouth shut. Jack asks questions. How do you know he's here? What makes you so sure? How long have you been looking for him? Why are you looking for him? Why the fuck are you so sketchy?

Hic's answer is always the same. "Just worry about yourself, witchy."

So that's what Jack does. He draws sigils on his body, mixes potions in the bathtub, and starts a new spell journal. He's a solitary witch, jumping from tradition to tradition, his fingers stained with blood and water and honey. A few years back, he met a Celtic witch with frizzy red hair. She talked about the Ancient Ones in her sleep. And one time he met a wild witch that braided crystals into her hair. Her arms were dyed with watercolors. Jack's met a lot of people. Jack's fucked a lot of people. All of that feels so long ago, lost in another century.

This is something he shares with Hic. Time is balled up in their brains, knotted and painful. Every morning, Hic talks about one of his demonic adventures. Skimming the top of the atmosphere, digging into the eighth circle of Hell, he's done it all. He stands over the stove and talks, pushing the meat around with one claw.

Venison starts making Jack sick, so they switch to gator tails and cattail salad. Hic makes him a cup of chamomile tea every evening.

He hands Jack a chipped teacup. "I wonder why you can't eat deer anymore."

"It's a progression of the disease. The list of things you can eat gets smaller and smaller 'til you can't eat anything at all."

"Sucks."

"Yeah…" Jack stirs the tea with his index finger. "It doesn't matter. You're eating your own blood by the end, drowning in it. Then you fucking die."

"Let's talk about something else." Hic conjures a flame in his palm. "We can play a game."

They spend the rest of the night passing the flame back and forth, trying to get the other to put it out. You've gotta be focused, the fire is fragile. Jack absentmindedly licks his lips and Hic loses it, the flame evaporating into the air.

The days creep by, the sun drags itself across the sky. At night, they slip through the streets. Undetected. Every time they shadow jump, Jack pukes, but it's the easiest way to travel. No one really watches the shadows. They rob a Publix and a CVS. Now Jack can gorge himself on Chex Mix and Twinkies. Hic hordes avocados like a dragon hordes gold, they end up eating guacamole for three days straight.

They visit dusty old bars and psychic shops full of cheap crystal balls. Hic talks to the darkness, he meets up with demons in the dark. Jack's always known about the underground community of demons. Dark magic flows beneath the town at all times, reaching up through the gutters and the manholes. Mmm, manholes, what Jack wouldn't give to have a taste of one right now? A nice, tight manhole and a whimpering mouth. But there's no time for that and he's not getting any from Hic. Together, they scour the darkest parts of town, which aren't really that dark. There are darker places.

Hic speaks through Jack, sending him out to drug dens where people get high on nightmares. Jack asks questions that he doesn't even understand. Just do as Hic says, right? Ask about "the Father" and ask about "that one place with the robot mural". Whisper about "the house in front of the cemetery" and "the GoodWill outlet that they all go to". Jack doesn't know what the fuck he's saying, but he says it. He says it and the people either smile or cry. Then Jack reports back to Hic.

Hic always says the same thing. "Good job. Now what do you want me to do? Massage your shoulders, make you some tea, fluff your pillow?"

Jack always shakes his head. "No, no, none of that. I'm taking a shower."

Grime and blood spirals down the drain. Jack scratches his skin until it turns red, his stomach covered in claw marks. The water goes from hot to cold, cold to hot. It burns and freezes and sears and pricks. When he steps out of the tub, he feels raw. And then he rolls naked into bed, goosebumps all over his back. And he dreams of a dusky forest covered in black and white light. Skinned deer wander in between the trees. Then he wakes up and the day begins again.

The search for Father Time is… slow.

"No, it's stupid as fuck." Jack is sapping energy from a dead gator that floats above his head. He keeps it suspended, his eyes pulsing. Whenever Hic hunts, he brings back the corpse and hangs it from the ceiling.

"No, it's not stupid. These things take time, like, you can't just look up Father Time in the phonebook." Hic stretches and flexes his wings. "And would you stop doing whatever you're doing? It's basically necromancy."

"It's really not."

"Whatever. It's still freaky."

"Uh-huh…" Jack doesn't care, his mind is deep within the gator's flesh, digging through centuries of cold-blooded memories. Oh look, a dinosaur.

Gator tails start bothering him a few days later, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe denial will cure him. He just lies awake at night, suffering the sharp pain in his side, blood dribbling down his chin. At least he can function now, at least he can go outside and lie beside Hic in the sawgrass. They sit in piles of thorns, Jack's skin protected by a magical salve. Hic lets the sawgrass slice him up, he doesn't mind. His arms are covered in long scratches.

Then Hic gets a lead. A big fucking lead. He bursts through the door, sawdust falling from the ceiling. "This is it, this is it! Wake up, witchy, this is it!"

Jack's writing in his journal. "I've been awake since four this morning. The hell is going on?"

"This." He holds up a ripped napkin. "I finally cracked the bartender. He gave me this address, and it's not too far. So pack your bags, we're going to Orlando!"

Jack snorts. "I don't have anything to pack. Why the fuck are we going to Orlando?"

"I got a lead! I. Got. A. Lead."

"I don't even know what that means." He tosses his journal onto the bed. "You've been making me talk to random ass people, go to creepy places, and now you're like, 'let's go to Orlando'. You're really starting to piss me off."

"Oh, come on. I've offered to rub your feet. I make you breakfast, too." Hic grabs Jack by the shoulders. "And now we have our first clue."

Jack wrenches away. "But I don't know what that means! I don't know what's going on! What's in Orlando? What's the clue? You need to explain things to me."

Hic stares right through him. Green eyes flash red and then he sighs. "Fine. Sit down, your knees are shaking." He stands over Jack, arms crossed. "We're going to Orlando because an associate of Father Time might be there. He's like a mob boss, a lot of people have heard of him but few have seen him."

"But his name is all over the place. Doesn't sound too secretive to me."

"Yeah, but no one knows who he is. It's like Big Brother. Everyone knows that name, but that doesn't mean people know who the name belongs to. Father Time is like a title, like President or Empress."

Jack taps his teeth. "So we're going to Orlando to find someone close to him. Someone in his circle…"

"More like someone just outside his circle. Someone that's funded by him. They're in the magical drug business." Hic cracks his knuckles. "Oh, and they're a reaper."

Jack gives a hollow laugh. "E-Excuse me?"

"She's a reaper. You know, she collects souls and—"

"I know what a reaper is. They work for Death. Why the hell are we going to meet a reaper?"

Hic rolls his eyes. "It's like you know absolutely nothing. Reapers have free will. Yeah, they collect souls, but on the side they can do whatever they want. Some of them even work with Satan sometimes. Father Time is a neutral figure, yeah, but he has to keep time moving. He's got to lead people to Death, make sure that they die. Death doesn't kill people, Death just collect souls. He's like the head reaper. Father Time's job is to watch time, monitor it, and make sure no one challenges Destiny. But he's not some boring old man. He has fun. He's got some drug businesses on the side, some prostitution rings."

"So he's a drug-pushing pimp?"

"I guess…"

Jack runs his hands down his face. "And my 'destiny' is to die a slow and painful death, but if we talk to him he might extend my life or something?"

"That's the idea."

"That's not gonna work." His muscles are tense, his stomach is killing him. Or maybe that's his lungs or his liver or his kidneys? "Hic, that plan will never work. This is the dumbest, shittiest plan in all of existence. Talking to him isn't gonna do anything."

Hic shrugs and forces a smile. "Well, you don't know that. We have to talk to him first."

"That's it? That's the plan? Let's just go and talk to him… yeah, okay, that'll work." Jack grits his teeth. "It almost feels like you're using me to get to Father Time. Using my magic. Like you used me just to make a contract…"

Hic blinks, the smile still plastered on his face. "That's dumb. That's just, just ridiculous. I don't need you to find him. Now let's go."

"That's not an answ—" Jack can't finish his sentence, he's puking gator tail all over Hic's feet.

That smile's still there. "Guess I'm not making gator tail ever again."

Jack looks pretty good in red flannel. Red and black, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Hic stole it from a GoodWill.

When Jack saw it, he said, "You can't steal from a GoodWill. You just can't. It's wrong."

"I'm a demon."

"True…"

Now he's wearing it with a pair of oversized jeans, the ones with holes in the knees. He found them stuffed under the bed, all wadded up into a ball. They smell like mud and maple syrup.

Hic takes a deep breath. "You smell good. Now hold on tight." He presses Jack against his chest. His wings unfurl and knock a mason jar off the stove. The cabin shakes, darkness wells up from the floor, and they're gone. Back into the void, into the layers of black and blue.

Jack keeps his eyes open. There's an orange grove dripping with sunlight, a sign that says local honey and gator jerky, and there's a roadside vendor selling "Live" Turtles. The sky is big and starry, the roads are straight and black. Cars rumble across chipped pavement, a dozen mini vans and SUV's all headed to Disney World. Despite the nausea, Jack keeps his eyes open. He keeps his fucking eyes open. Nausea keeps you awake, it's a good remedy for worry and doubt. Any pain is. Pain pokes a hole in your bubble, it gives you tunnel vision and puts blinders on your eyes. Nothing else matters when your jaw is aching or your stomach is cramping. When bones are splinters and your muscles are on fire. You see blood and, for a moment, that is all you care about. Am I gonna be okay? Am I going to die? You think it and it's gone, a dull throbbing that fades into your core.

Jack swallows spit and bile and blood. When they materialize on an empty sidewalk, he leans towards the grass, but nothing comes up. Wow, he didn't puke this time.

Hic gives him a pat on the back. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just give me a minute." All he can see are a blur of weeds and candy wrappers. Where are they?

"Welcome to International Drive. You've been here before, right?"

"Yeah." Jack stands up and rubs his eyes. "This entire street is a tourist trap. There's a frickin' wax museum here now. Gods, tell me we're not going there."

Hic laughs. "No creepy wax museums today. Just a creepy souvenir store."

"How nice." Jack squints in the darkness. "Let's get this over with."

They walk down the cracked sidewalk. To their right, there's a straight black road and a dozen yellow headlights. To their left, there's long blades of dark green grass and random buildings. A Taco Bell and a knock-off Disney store. A go-kart track and an adult video store. There's a lingerie store wedged between two pawn shops. Headless models pose in the windows, their paper white asses clad in thongs and lacey underwear. The models are overdressed. Tight red corsets laced down their backs, garters and stockings and pantyhose, the whole shebang. Jack eyes a black, see-through bodice. It's sliced open in the front, framing the mannequin's stomach. It's like the outfit he used to wear every Sunday night. It was tight and sheer, showing off his smooth tummy that tightened when he laughed. Sunday nights were show nights, full of silver confetti and long, yellow bananas. Jack would dance with some of the other boys, then they would kiss and grab ass. No sex, just euphemisms and innuendo.

Jack stops walking. "Stop. I want to go in that store."

"Uh, okay. Why?"

"I want to treat myself. That's okay, right?"

Hic shrugs. "Of course. I'm just, uh, wondering why you want lingerie. You planning on wearing it for anyone?"

He grits his teeth. "I'll wear it for myself, asshole. Wait here."

Jack sprints across the blacktop. It sparkles with cigarette butts and broken glass. The door dings when he walks inside. Look at all those aisles full of cheap cosmetics and plastic shoes, all the turnstiles packed with maid outfits and lacey bras. A couple is looking through a stack of underwear. An old man is standing in the corner, looking at DVDs. Only two types of people go into a lingerie store: people that are actually buying lingerie and people that are creeping on the people buying lingerie. Jack is neither. He just wants to try shit on. He grabs a fistful of hangars and squeezes into a fitting room.

The first piece is red and frilly, flaring out around his thighs. Red panties are soft against his skin, silky and smooth. Come on, Jack, give us a fashion show. Turn and flex, turn and flex. He tries on ripped panty hose and lacey garters and leather corsets. He's back in the red one now, standing with his hands on his hips. Oh yeah, he's sexy.

He whispers into the mirror. "I am sexy…"

"Yes, you are." There's a woman leaning against the wall. Blonde braids, blue eyes, scars all over her hands… wait, what?

Jack leaps back into a corner. "Who the fuck are you? H-How did you get in here?"

She crosses her arms. "No, no, I'm asking the questions here. Why are you looking for me?"

"I don't even know who you are! I'm not looking for you, I'm just trying stuff on."

"No, you're looking for me." She rolls up the sleeves of her sweater, her big, black, cable-knit sweater. It hangs down to her thighs. "You're with Hic, I caught him outside jerking off into a garbage can."

"Okay, uh, that's disgusting. But I don't know what you're talking about." Yeah, that's the right idea, Jack, just play dumb. He pulls at the red fabric. His fingers are twitchy and his stomach is roiling. There's blood in his mouth. He swallows it. "I-I don't know who you are, I don't know who Hic is. I'm just a random person trying on clothes."

She shakes her head. "No, you're really not. You're with that dumb demon outside. I know him, I know his past. And I know that a certain bartender gave him certain information about my location."

Jack blinks. "Wait… you're not the reaper, are you?"

Her grin is like a Jack-o-lantern, wide and toothy and sharp as hell. Strands of hair stick to her sweaty forehead. Gods, she's gorgeous. Hard and lean, her abs like a washboard. A pink bra flashes beneath her sweater, her shorts are frayed. And those combat boots, damn.

Jack says it again. "Y-You're the reaper."

"Yep. You're damn right I am."

The blood is roaring in his ears. "How did you find us?"

"I told you, I know you're looking for me. Not much gets past a reaper." She walks over to the mirror and starts braiding her hair. "And I know how much Hic hates my boss. He's looked for my boss before, oh yes, he's gone looking for the Father before."

"What'd you mean?"

She shrugs. "I mean what I mean. Hic's gone looking for my boss before. He's hated him for a long ass time."

Jack sits on the floor, he feels safer down there. Besides, his knees are starting to shake. "Why does Hic hate him so much?"

Her smile is back. Holy shit, she looks like the Joker. "So he hasn't told you. Interesting."

Jack groans and runs his hands down his face. "Seriously, why can't anything be easy? Gods, don't play games with me! Just tell me!"

She shrugs again. "It's not my place to tell you."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. I respect people's privacy." She turns to him and smiles. "I'm Astrid, by the way. I'd ask your name, but I can see it floating over your head. You must be dying, Jackson. Your name is really bright, real bolded."

He wraps his arms around his legs. "I go by Jack."

"Don't care." When she bends down, her jewelry clangs together. Shark tooth necklaces and long, golden chains. "Now why don't you tell me what you're doing with Hic, huh? He must need you for something."

"I'm not telling you shit. Go outside and talk to Hic yourself."

"No. I want to talk to you."

"I-I don't want to talk to you…" There's a metallic taste on his tongue. He coughs, spraying her with blood. His skin is hot, his eyes are bulging. Don't get excited, Jack. Stress accelerates the disease, stress accelerates the disease. Intestines are twisting, brains are boiling. Magic shoots through his veins like heroin, his hands start to shake.

Pain and magic.

Magic and pain.

Not a good combination.

Because now his eyes are clouding and the lights are flickering. Get away, get away, the reaper is smiling and trying to touch you.

"I won't hurt you, Jack. Just tell me why you're with Hic, tell me why you're here."

No, no no. Her fingers are scraping, scraping across his collarbone, collarbones are knocking together in the dark, darkness settling over the lingerie store like a shroud, shroud of black and white and grey, grey eyes shining in the night, night of teeth and toenails and blood. Blood dribbles down Jack's chin. He lets it drip onto the tile. And then the store explodes. Light, magic, blood. The store fucking explodes. And Jack is trapped beneath a broken fitting room and a broken reaper. Her smile is still there.

There's blood smeared across her teeth. "I knew there was something special about you."

"Whatever…"

His eyes roll back. The last thing he sees is a demon in tattered Levi's, a demon with fear in his eyes.


	6. That Time Fireworks Sounded Like Gunshots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update, woo hoo.
> 
> Like usual, sorry for the delay. Even though it's summer, it's still so hard to find time to write. But here it is, the next chapter. Thank you to everyone who has commented/left kudos so far. All of you are so wonderful and if I wasn't so awkward I would write each of you a massive thank you letter.
> 
> For the sake of clarification, the reference to Mordred in this chapter is pertaining to the Mordred from the legend of King Arthur, who is (unfairly) sent to Hell in Dante's Inferno for betraying his father. There are other Inferno references, as well. And all of the minute details about the Magic Kingdom are as accurate as I could make them... I have been to that park quite a bit, and yes, there really is a menu item there called Freedom Pasta.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy the chapter! Warnings for this chapter include: excessive swearing, nsfw content, the presence of weird puppet children, and the usual creepiness.

Fireworks sound remarkably like gunshots. Well, it's not really that remarkable, not for anyone with working ears. Of course they sound similar, fireworks and gunshots, gunshots and fireworks. They're fucking interchangeable. Both of them can kill people, accidentally or on purpose. When Jack was a kid, his sister shot him in the foot.

She screamed and cried and threw their father's gun to the floor. "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it!"

Jack shrugged. "I-It's fine, don't worry about it… hey, maybe they'll have to amputate it and I'll get a peg leg."

But his foot wasn't amputated. Dad took him to one of his friends, some underground mage that practiced blood magic. It was a night of fire and chanting, of weird ass sigils and pain and cracking bones. Overlands don't go to hospital. Overlands aren't afraid of guns. Shit, Overlands aren't afraid of anything. Dad used to say that while he brewed poisons in a big iron pot.

"Listen, Jack. You and your sister have more magic than me." He'd lean over his pot, sweat dripping down his face. "You've got more power than anyone I know. You don't need to rely on anyone or anything. Got it?"

Jack never responded. He just shrugged. And then shit happened and his family was all torn to pieces. Literally, figuratively. Now he's asleep and dreaming of fireworks. Fat red fireworks that explode overhead. Droopy green ones that fall into the horizon. The kind that whistle and pop and crack like whips. He likes the ones shaped like stars. They leave smoky imprints in the sky, like they're branding it. He's got a brand on his lower back… did you know that? Only one tattoo parlor in his county does brandings. Jack cried when they did it, but now he has a sun seared into his spine with the words it hurts to become written beneath it. One of his exes used to laugh at it.

"Dude, you're not fuckin' cattle." They giggled and punched his arm. "I'm not sure if getting branded is badass or pretentious."

"It's both."

They shrugged and circled the sun with one finger. "I guess it's kinda poetic."

"Now that's pretentious."

Jack dated them for a few weeks. Then they kissed his lips in the middle of night and disappeared. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

Jack lost something the night he saw the fireworks. It was the Fourth of July and his stomach hurt. Not in the too much funnel cake or alcohol way, though he did eat a fuck ton of funnel cake. And he was onto his fourth beer, the kind that tastes like iced tea. It was a weird stomachache, like something was moving inside. His skin was hot, too, his neck covered in cold sweat. Even his feet were sweaty, the webbing in between his toes. Everything was sweaty, his cut-off shorts and his American flag crop top. It was supposed to be a party. Jack was supposed to dance on a cheap stage made of orange crates. But some new boy was dancing instead. Jack's an old boy, an old, sick boy that's losing his cool. Last week, he had to run offstage and puke.

His boss found him lying in the backroom, his head in a mop bucket.

"What the fuck's wrong with you? You just left fifty customers hanging!"

"I-I don't know!" Jack curled into a ball and sobbed. "I don't know what's wrong!"

The boss knelt on the tile floor. "Jackie… listen. I'm sorry I yelled. You've been out of it for a couple weeks now. You on drugs?"

Jack shook his head, snot and tears smeared all over his face. "No, no, no. I'm not on drugs. The hell who do you think you're talking to… I've told you that over and over."

"I know." He sighed. "So you got the flu? Mono? AIDS? Herpes?"

Jack snorted and wiped his nose. "You're an idiot. I get tested for that shit every month."

"Whatever it is, you're not performing well."

"Oh, we don't want that." Jack tried to laugh but nothing came his out. His teeth were chattering too hard. "W-We don't want you to lose money, t-that would be a fuckin' tragedy."

The boss sighed. "You know I care about your well-being, Jackie. But I'm runnin' a business, too. You gotta take some time off. You gotta take care of whatever this is."

"Whatever." Jack turned towards the wall. He stared at the wall and memorized the feeling. Like something's moving inside you. Like something's slipping away.

His "time off" would turn into a permanent leave of absence. But that night, watching the fireworks, he was still a dancer. Just one more show, please… one more chance to make his mark. He was supposed to dance, he was supposed to go out with a bang. Jack's luck is shit.

Fireworks popped overhead. Bang, bang, bang. A couple kissed and fucked in the bushes. Bang, bang, bang. Jack's brain pounded against his skull. Bang, bang, bang. And sparks slipped down the sky, fingers slipped down the leaves, sweat slipped down his face. It was all gone. Fire and flesh and spirit, all of it slipping away. Jack's hands were numb, his lips were cold. They tasted like blood. He coughed into his hand and saw red. Yeah, that was it, that's when he knew something was wrong.

He stared at the blood in his palm. The air was hot and sticky, full of mosquitoes and flies. There were cars parked in the wet grass. People made out on the hoods and stared up at the sky. Look at all the fireworks, look at all the pretty colors. Werewolves howled every time a mortar went off, witches laughed and conjured sparks in their hands. Jack's sister would have loved that. She would have tugged on his arm and said, "Look, Jack! Look at it! Everything's so, uh, so magical!"

Yeah, Emma. Everything is magical.

He smeared the blood down his stomach and leaned against the folded metal. The trailer was white and abandoned, full of rats and beer cans. Jack sat on a stack of orange crates, rubbing his hands over his knees. His friends ate rare burgers and drank vodka out of red solo cups. His friends were happy while he cried into his hands. The couple fucking in the bushes eventually came out, their palms and knees covered in dirt.

"Hey, man. You okay?" Her voice was full of whiskey.

Her girlfriend stood beside her, eyes glassy. "Yeah, you okay? You don't look okay." She kept a hand down her girlfriend's pants while she talked.

Jack nodded. "I'm fine, everything's fine."

Glassy-eyes nodded back. "Oh… okay. If you're sure." Then she forgot about Jack's existence and rubbed her girlfriend 'til she came.

Jack sat on his orange crates all night, crying and bleeding and puking into the bushes. He saw a lot of shit, but no one saw him. The two girls had sex a few more times and left. A fight broke out, an orgy unraveled. A couple drunk people met him in the bushes and nodded sympathetically. They threw up alcohol and he threw up blood. Why is life so unfair?

Fourth of July was hell. A red, white, and blue Hell. And Hell kept growing, stretching until it consumed his life. A demon in a white coat told him he would never leave Hell, no, he would just sink into it. That was one of the few times Jack went to a doctor. He was a spellbinder and a licensed physician. A man of the mundane and the arcane. He put Jack on a cold, white table and probed him with words.

"You're running out of time, friend. Your insides are a mess."

Thanks, Doc, like he didn't already know. Jack left the white walls behind and walked back into Hell. He walked into each circle, blood dripping down his chin. The first circle was eye-rolls and nervous laughs and pitying glances. The second circle was well-meaning advice and bad jokes and even more eye-rolls. The third was abandonment. The fourth was pain. And the rest were blood. Now he's slipping on the ice, kicking the faces of the damned. He's that dumbass named Dante, except he doesn't have a Virgil to carry him across the waste.

Why is Hell cold, anyway? Why does Satan have three faces? Why is Mordred down here? Why are the rapists freer than the traitors? And why the fuck is sadness a sin?

Jack hates that book.

Jack hates that place.

Jack hates this stupid dream.

Fireworks explode overhead, orange crates rattle beneath his feet. He doesn't want to remember anything else, no more flashbacks or old stories. There is one memory that bothers him most. There's a lingerie store and a girl with blonde hair. There's magic and power that makes him feel alive. Did that really happen or…

"Hey. Hey, Jack."

A demon stands in front of him. No, it's not the doctor in the white coat or the drunk kids or the couple making out against the painted metal. It's a familiar face. Green eyes, freckles like a thousand stars… Hic.

"Hey, witchy. Stop dreaming."

He shrugs. "Fine."

And his eyes are open. Darkness, nothing but darkness and muddled voices. He's lying on a sheet, something real thin and scratchy, like sandpaper. Shadows crowd around him, they're all the same height, the same shape. Oh gods, don't let it be gremlins.

"Good. You're alive." The reaper named Astrid switches on a light. She leans against the doorframe, fingernails pulling at her sweater. Shit, look at all those bandages.

"Uh, yeah, I'm alive."

"Then sit up already. You weren't hurt nearly as bad as me. Sit your ass up, warlock."

"Sure." Jack blinks and looks around. The sheet is just a tarp, and the shadows are little wooden people. Tiny puppet children with painted eyes and lips. "Okay, this is worse than gremlins. What the hell is this, Astrid?"

She grins, her front tooth is chipped. "You ever been to Disney World?"

"Once."

"Ever been on It's a Small World?"

He stands up, his legs suddenly strong. "I guess. Maybe. I don't remember."

"Oh, you would remember that ride. It's a repetitive preschool Hell that never ends. They sing this damn song over and over again until you're tempted to drown yourself in the little chlorinated river."

Jack shrugs. "So what's your point? Let me guess, this is the ride."

"This is a storage room for that ride." Astrid steps over a broken doll. "This is where they toss the puppets after they've run their course. Or maybe they just made too many and they keep 'em here. I don't know, I don't fucking work here, I just use this place as one of my homebases."

"And no one ever finds you?"

"I'm a reaper. I'm not an idiot. This room is warded up the ass." She sits on a little wooden carousel. Some of the dolls are glued to the horses. "It's hard to explain, but reapers like to use ordinary places to conduct business. We find a janitorial closet in some school or a freezer in some restaurant or a storage room, like this one. Some place that humans visit but often ignore. And then we kind of remove it from existence. It still exists, humans can still come here, but they don't remember it. It's like they're in a trance when they walk through that door."

Jack runs his hands down his face. "What?"

Astrid rolls her eyes. "Okay, just imagine that you work here. Your boss tells you to come down to this storage room and get something. You roll down here, you open the door, you get what you need, and then you leave. You don't really remember what you saw here, all you know is that you did your job. It's like you blackout and just coast through. Who can remember every second of their day? No one, that's who."

"And that works? Existing in this weird middle dimension works for you?"

She nods. "Yeah, of course it works. Even if I slip up, which I never do, but even if I did it wouldn't matter. Humans ignore half of what they see, anyways. Their brains are too smart to let them see."

Jack laughs and sits next to her. "Oh yeah, their brains are too smart to let them see dangerous things like me. A dying warlock that can't even do a magic trick."

"Two things. One, I never said you could sit next to me, asshole. Two, I'm pretty sure you could do a magic trick. I'm pretty sure you could level a whole city, actually."

He can't help but smile. "So I did blow up the lingerie store."

"Don't act all proud of yourself." Astrid punches him in the arm. "Look what happened to me."

"You're a reaper. It's not like you can die."

"But I can still feel pain, dumbass. I don't like getting hurt." She rubs the bandage under her eye. "So, you have Kronos Disease. I always forget how it's spelled, with a 'ch' or a 'k'. Does it matter?"

Of course, it always comes back to this. All people see when they look at him is the disease. "Yeah, I have Kronos. You're a reaper, you know all this."

"Just wanted to hear it from you. How shitty is it? On a scale of one to ten?"

"What a stupid question." He gets up and walks to the door. A small, gray thing. It looks like it's cowering in the corner, its face is bruised and broken.

No one talks. The puppets smile and stare into space while Jack stares at the door. Gray metal, gray walls, gray floors. Everything is dull and lifeless, even the puppets. Where's that Disney magic, huh? Fuck magic, fuck pixie dust, too.

He heaves a sigh, his shoulders shaking. "Why are you being so… friendly?"

"Friendly? You think I'm being friendly?"

"Well, you're definitely being nicer than before. What kind of game are you playing?"

Astrid laughs and kicks a decapitated puppet in the back. "No game. Your boyfriend just told me not to mess with you. I'm surprised you haven't asked about him."

Jack clenches his fists. "Hic is not my boyfriend! And I don't have to ask about him. I know he's around here, he's got a plan or something. He wouldn't leave me here. He wouldn't."

Threads of hair stick to her smiling lips. "You sure he's not your boyfriend?"

"He's not."

"Oh, okay. Sure. Whatever he is, I can't touch you. And I don't want to." She licks her lips, her eyes narrowed. "But you are tempting, death lingers over you… you smell delicious."

He wants to cry or punch her in the face. Maybe both. Gods, his stomach hurts, but it's a different kind of hurt. "S-Shut up, okay? Tell me where Hic is already."

"I thought you didn't have to ask about him. I thought you knew all about him, what his plan is." She walks toward him, the heels of her boots dragging across the concrete. "He wouldn't leave you, remember? He wouldn't."

Jack backs into the door. "Stop screwing with me. I'm sick of you, I wanna leave."

"Oh, so you're sick of me now? I'm sick of you, too, asshole. You think I like babysitting you? Fuck no. I've got things to do, places to be." She skates closer and closer. Her eyes are so angry.

"Then leave, Astrid! You don't have to babysit me anymore."

"Hic told me to watch you, idiot." She shoves him against the door. "So just sit your ass down, witchy."

"Hic calls me that…" His lips are suddenly dry. "What'd he tell you about me?"

"He told me enough. Now sit down."

He tries to shove her away but she won't budge. "No! I want to go. And I'm done with you."

Her eyes are nothing now. Not angry, not sad. Just there. "You're the one that came looking for me."

"No, no, no. Hic came looking for you. I was just dragged along like a fucking puppy on a leash. I-I don't even know what I'm doing here… what's going on." Great, now he's crying. The tears are hot and creeping. Quick, push 'em back down, punch yourself in the face. He punches the door.

Astrid rolls her eyes. "Damn, you warlocks are so dramatic."

"Can you tell me where Hic is now?"

"I never said I knew where he was. He's somewhere nearby. Or maybe he did leave you. Don't know, don't care. He gave me souls and told me to watch you for a bit. Simple."

"So he's giving souls away now? How nice?" This shit is too much. Jack rubs his eyes. "I'm going for a walk. How do I get out of here?"

Astrid sits back down on the carousel and pulls a cigarette out of her bra. "Go through that door. The ride's closed for maintenance, so no one will see you if you're careful. But be careful out in the park, there's Magic Hours tonight."

"Don't know what that means, but okay. I'll watch my back."

She snaps her fingers. "Hey. Give me a light first."

Groaning, he conjures a flame on his finger. Cigarette smoke blossoms between her lips. A tiny pirate ship, a great grey dragon, a skull n' crossbones. She clenches her teeth and breathes out a long, black snake. It slithers around Jack's waist.

"That's kinda cool."

She clacks her teeth together. "I thought you were going for a walk."

"Yeah. Sure." He leaves Astrid to her smoke and mirrors, to her puppets and wooden carousels. She says something as he closes the door, but he can't hear her. Oh well.

Disney is different in the dark. Cobblestones are drenched in shadow and light, people moving through the night like ghosts. And the carousel slowly hypnotizes the crowd. Children run down the wide streets, tugging on their parents and pulling them into gift shops. It looks empty but feels crowded. Like there are hordes of invisible people shuffling by. There are so many crowds at Disney, crowds of people, crowds of employees, crowds of characters. But at night, everything slows down.

Tourists wear their special armbands and watch fireworks by the lake. No, that's wrong. The lake is in Epcot, not the Magic Kingdom. The fireworks are where? In the sky? Overhead? Soaring over Cinderella's castle? Or maybe the fireworks are over and Jack's remembering the night he sat on the orange crates. He shakes his head and keeps walking.

The Magic Kingdom is a sprawling labyrinth. Lights, buildings, roads and rides. Teacups spin and spin and spin, Jack can't watch them for too long. He walks unnoticed down the street. Navigating It's a Small World was easy enough, he climbed over wooden bridges and waded through waist-deep water. The rivers ran blue, clean and clear and full of silver coins. He picked a few up on the way out. No one saw him slip into the crowd. All he had to do was conjure some mist and hide behind it.

No one questions random mist in Disney.

No one notices a sick guy with bags under his eyes.

And no one really cares about a sick guy with bags under his eyes. He's just a guy wandering around the Magic Kingdom, looking into shop windows and staring up at the balloons that float away. There's a lot to see. A lot to smell. Damn, those pretzels look good, and those ice cream cones must taste delicious. Salt, sugar, dough, waffle-ironed cones that are sticky to touch. Jack's mouth is watering. You're an animal, Jack. A fucking animal. He steals a funnel cake from one of those families that wears matching T-shirts. You know the kind. The family that has stick figures plastered to the back of their car, the family that congregates at Disney for a reunion. Hello, we are the Smiths. We are the Smiths and we won't miss one measly funnel cake.

Jack won't miss the funnel cake, either. Gods, it tastes so good, but it doesn't settle well. Winnie the Pooh gives him a pat on the back while he pukes into a garbage can. One pat is… understandable. Two pats is awkward. Three pats is just weird.

"What the fuck, Pooh?" Jack stands up and wipes his mouth. "Don't you have to go on break or something?"

"No, not really."

"Hic?"

Pooh laughs and pulls him into a bathroom. It smells like soap and water. "Yeah, witchy. It's me. I look good in this suit, huh?" He pulls off his head and keeps laughing. "I'm glad you're okay. You had me worried there."

"Why are you wearing a Winnie the Pooh costume?"

Hic rolls his eyes. "I'm doing recon. I can't walk around here without a disguise."

"So when you think of a disguise the first thing that pops into your head is Pooh?"

"It was the first costume I saw, okay? Does it really matter?"

Jack sighs and sits on the counter, his feet in the sink. "I guess not. None of this really matters."

Hic bites his lip. There's nothing to say. So they stand and sit in silence, listening to the rush of the A/C and the muffled voices from outside. The costume is hot and heavy, it presses Hic's wings against his spine. He steps out of it and stuffs it into an empty stall. You can see the big yellow feet if you lie down on your stomach. His skin is warm, his eyes watery. This places makes him feel on edge, like a razor is scraping his nerves. Too many people, too many careless eyes. Hic's used to hiding in the dark, but how can he hide when even the dark has eyes? He curls his toes into the frayed jeans and looks at Jack.

There is a lot to see. Thick, black lashes that fall out when he rubs his eyes. White teeth that glint in the fluorescents. And there are freckles around his nose, faint but there. Sweat beads on his skin, rolls down his neck. The flannel is rolled up on one side, pulled down on the other. This guy is a fucking mess. But Hic still wants to touch him for some reason. Grab his hand and feel the wrinkles in his knuckles. He wants to graze his collarbone with his claws. Hic just wants to hug Jack, he wants to pull him close like the first time they met. Everything was different then. Desperation was strewn across the apartment, piling up in every nook and cranny. Fear lined the bookshelves and shattered against the floor. That hug wasn't a real hug, it was animal instinct. Hold me, just hold me.

If he hugs Jack now… Hell knows what'll happen. Satan could rise from the depths and rip him apart. The metabolic cycle of good and evil could come undone. Or maybe Jack would push him away. Maybe Jack would say, "I only need you to make me feel better. That's all I need you for."

Okay, that was weird. Hic scrunches up his face and whispers to his reflection. "What the fuck? What are you even thinking about?"

Jack taps on the glass. "What's wrong? You look demented."

"Nothing. I just had a really weird thought." He hops off the counter and stretches his wings. "You okay now? You looked sick outside."

"I ate a shitty funnel cake."

"Funnel cakes are not shitty." Hic holds up his hands. "Want me to, uh, do the thing. The thing with my hands."

It takes Jack a few seconds to get it. "Oh, that thing. Yeah, sure, that would be nice. I feel pretty shitty."

Hic's grin is wide and toothy. "Like that funnel cake?"

"Sure."

Demon hands are warm and rough. They press against Jack's midriff, claws digging through the flannel. He feels the heat in his core, he feels the nails on his skin. A/C sifts through the bathroom, over stalls and sinks. If Jack closes his eyes, he could be anywhere. A bathroom in New York, porcelain countertops and marble walls. He could be sitting against a polished mirror and drinking Grey Goose vodka straight from the bottle. He could be in Miami, crammed into a club bathroom covered in black tile. He could be home, in the old white house with wooden slats. Yeah, that was a nice place. Weeds grew up to his thighs and jasmine bloomed beneath his feet. He used to climb the palm trees in his backyard. Then he would slide back down, his knees raw and bloody, and his mom would yell at him from the kitchen.

Good times, good times. Jack smiles and slouches against the mirror. Hic's hands move all over his abdomen, from chest to hips and back again. Don't move, Jack, just close your eyes and pretend everything's okay. Don't think about the baggy Levi's and the way they cling to Hic's ass. Don't think about freckles or frowns or furrowed eyebrows. Don't think about the hands that only want you to feel better.

He does this because he needs me. He needs me to find Father Time. He doesn't want to touch me or kiss me or fuck me, he just wants to use me.

Whatever.

After a few minutes, Jack has to throw up again. Hic pats his back and talks about the fireworks. "They're huge and powerful. I almost got knocked out of the sky by one, you should have seen it, witchy."

Then Jack sits on the back of the toilet and they talk about shitty funnel cakes and shitty people. Which leads to a discussion about Astrid and her nonexistent storage room. She's mean, but she's nice. She hates Hic, but she loves him, too.

"We've been friends for a long time."

Jack pulls his legs up to his chin. "How long?"

"Centuries."

"Uh, yeah, that is a long time."

They met in the middle of a hurricane, on a remote island in the Arctic. Rain lashed the cliff-face, gusts of wind cut the trees in half. Hic stood on the black and brown rocks and peered into the eye. That's when the lightning bolt hit him full in the face. What shitty luck. He was thrown into the air and into the arms of a reaper.

"Reapers can fly?"

"Yes, Jack. They can glide or whatever. Stop interrupting me."

They move from Astrid to espionage. Hic is undercover, searching the area for other reapers or associates. The Magic Kingdom is a hub for reapers. Their headquarters is crammed inside the Haunted Mansion, hidden behind the mirrors and the darkness.

Hic starts unrolling the toilet paper. "Astrid hates them. She likes to work alone."

"Why?"

"Because they're assholes. They're a group of reapers that has a monopoly on most of the business. Astrid likes to play fair, she's not into shady business practices. So she does her own thing." He starts tracing patterns on the stall door. "Kind of like you."

"I guess."

There's not much else to talk about. Hic puts his Winnie the Pooh costume back on and they go walking through the streets. The reapers are quiet tonight, the fireworks are grey, faded scars. No vampires in the shadows, no ghosts in the machine. A few fairies flit around the teacups. They're cute, with their paper wings and painted toes. When Jack walks by, one of them whispers, "Look at that ugly motherfucker."

Rude. Jack gives them the finger and runs to catch up with Hic.

Let's run deeper into the night. Into this strange cartoonish Hell full of faces. Faces made of flesh, faces made of paper. And hands, there are so many hands. Child hands and old people hands, hands covered in scars and sunspots and veins. Jack's hands are white, they look dead in the darkness. Maybe he's one of the ghosts… oh, that would be funny. He absentmindedly reaches for Hic's paw.

He turns around, eyes glowing behind the mesh. "You need something?"

"Not really. My hands are just, uh, cold."

"It's like 95 degrees. And there's seventy-five percent humidity."

"Whatever, asshole. I'm still cold. I'll warm my own hands." There they go, deep into his pockets. He runs faster, past an elderly couple and their grandchildren. He shoves them aside. Let him through, just let him through. They're a collection of scabby elbows and wrinkled palms. Their balloons are red and blue and white. There are bracelets on their wrists and smiles on their faces. Too many things to look at. So Jack nudges the little girl and finds himself next to The Hall of Presidents.

"Jack! Jack, where are you going?" Hic waddles behind him.

The little girl waves her hands. "Pooh Bear! Look at me, Pooh!"

"Sorry, kid. Pooh has to go, uh, raid a beehive." His wings are hurting, they're sore and glued to his back. Sweat makes a nice adhesive. He almost trips on the steps as he follows Jack inside.

Liberty Square is, as you might expect, violently patriotic. Colonial style houses line the streets, squat and slatted and slandered in paint. The windowpanes are white, the walls are made of brick. Tiny golden eagles are imbedded in signs, carved into posts, or sitting on rooftops. The Liberty Tree Tavern is one way, the Columbia Harbor House is another. There's Declaration Salad and Freedom Pasta and Patriot's Punch and the Vegetarian Proclamation. In some alternate reality Hic isn't a demon and Jack isn't a dying warlock, and they visit the Magic Kingdom like normal people. Hic's wings are hypothetical and Jack's insides are brand new. In that alternate world, magic is all in their heads. Fairy lights tangle in the trees, stretching over their heads and their interlocking hands. What an awesome fucking world. If only they lived there.

The Hall of Presidents is a monolith of American patriotism. Just look at all this artificial antiquity. Massive oil paintings of Founding Fathers and purple mountains. Gods, this place is stifling. Jack wonders why he ever came in here.

"Why are you here?" Hic corners him against a portrait of Thomas Jefferson. They have to whisper, the last crowds are waiting for the show.

Jack crosses his arms. "To listen to the wisdom of America's Presidents."

"Be serious, witchy."

"It's kinda hard to be serious when I'm talking to Winnie the Pooh."

Hic rolls his eyes but no one can see him. "Why are you being so difficult? I took time out of my search to talk to you. Now we have to focus—"

"That's it!" Jack throws his hands up. "That right there. That's it. I'm tired of not knowing what's going on. We're supposed to be finding Father Time for me, asshole. Not you."

"Where the hell is this coming from? I've been helping you out for weeks. And then we found a lead so I ran with it." Hic leans in, his voice muffled. "Do you know how hard it is to find a reaper? Sure, Astrid and I are friends but that doesn't make her any easier to find. She knows stuff, Jack. That's why I dragged you here. I'm sorry if you're confused, but it's—"

"It's what? Better that I don't know?" He's almost crying again. The fear and the doubt and the… the rage comes bubbling up. "I'm the one that's dying. I'm the one that needs to know what's going on."

"I, uh, I'm sorry." Hic stares through the mesh. His breath is hot against his face. "I'm sorry, Jack. I—"

That's when the lights go out. Thomas Jefferson looks different in the dark, he looks like a giant fucking patch of darkness. Just like everything else. The crowd gasps, people shuffle back and forth and back again. Some kid starts crying, a woman speaks over a microphone. And then someone is grabbing Jack and Hic by the wrists and pulling them into a shadow. One second later, and they are standing on a boat. The big, white paddle boat that circles the Rivers of America. It's retired for the night, tucked away and sleeping.

Astrid lets go of their wrists. "You guys struggle like two-year-olds. You idiots must have known it was me."

Hic rips off Pooh's head. "That was dangerous, Astrid. You reapers have no finesse. Did anyone see you?"

She grits her teeth. "Of course not. And who are you to talk about finesse? You're dressed up in a fucking bear costume."

"Yeah, but I'm in a disguise. You're just walking around doing shitty shadow magic."

They keep arguing. Jack leans into the railing, looking down into the water. Black, still, silent. He can't even see his reflection. Oh, maybe that's a metaphor, a long extended metaphor for his quickly evaporating life. He's so far gone, he's so flimsy, he can't even see his reflection. But Jack doesn't give two shits about that stuff. He turns back to Hic and Astrid.

"Just tell me why you grabbed us, Astrid. I don't have time for this." Whenever he talks about time, it feels like another nail in his coffin.

"Fine. Something's happening, something big."

Hic's stuffing the costume into an empty barrel. He unfurls his wings when he looks at her. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

"I didn't know about it, asshole. It's not like I would keep it a secret." There's something about her that puts Jack on edge. Maybe it's the way she grinds her teeth or the way the points on her jewelry seem to grow longer. Or maybe it's Maybelline, Jack doesn't know. All he can see are her heavy boots and her long, white legs. He's sitting on the floor of the boat, his chin resting on his knees. Craning his neck too much gives him vertigo.

Hic cracks his knuckles one by one. "You know I trust you, Astrid. For the most part. What's going on?"

"After the little witch left my headquarters, I got a message from another reaper. There's a meet-up tonight. A real important one. A lot of goods are gonna be changing hands, a lot of profit is at stake. It's like an auction, really. A giant ass auction where the best souls, the best drugs, and the best arcane artifacts of the millennia will be sold." Astrid sits on the railing, dangling her feet over the water. "I don't usually care about this kind of thing. You know how much I hate the reaper union. But this is different. Actually, this is pretty damn important." She starts laughing. A laugh like shattered glass. "Your luck is shit, Hic. And your luck seems to be pretty shitty, too, Jack. But tonight, fate is on your side, I can't believe how fortunate you are."

Jack groans. "Spit it out, reaper. Haven't got all night."

Her eyes are wide now, her feet wrapped around the railing. "Two things. One, I wish I had gotten a picture of Hic in that stupid costume. And two, you better work on your manners, Jack, because the Father is going to be there."

Jack doesn't even look at Hic, his eyes go back to the water. "At the auction?"

"Yep. At the auction." She walks her fingers across the floorboards. "In the deepest part of the Haunted Mansion, in the room with all the staircases."


	7. That Time Water Felt Like Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update within a month of the last one, not bad.
> 
> So this is a big chapter, very important to the story. We finally get to meet Father Time and learn a little more about Hic and what he's up to, so it should be exciting. Any fancy sounding demon names you find in this chap are demons from Christian demonology/mythology. The hierarchy of Hell is pretty extensive.
> 
> Like usual, some warnings: language, blood, gore, angsty demon tears, evil cliffhangers, and creepy shadow men. All of that stuff is packed into this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy...

Water feels remarkably like blood, warm and thick and settling around Jack's ankles. When he first realized he was sick, he used to drink gallons of bay leaf and marigold tea. Not all at once… obviously. He'd wake up early and brew it on the stove. Sunlight eased through the blinds, long, yellow fingers that felt warm against his skin. Those were peaceful days. Yeah, the sickness was bad, but at least he could still function. He could go to garage sales and buy pretty teapots. He could boil water and steep tea and suck on peppermint leaves. He used to make poultices and bottle charms, too. The physical healing bottle charm was his favorite.

He made it one afternoon when the rain was hot and hazy. Pain dug into his skull and made him dizzy. Fuck nausea, it floats on the top of your stomach and makes you gag. He wrote Kronos Disease on a piece of paper and shoved it into a glass bottle. Then he added some ginger, some peppermint, and some moonlight cleansed water.

Sharpened scalpels are good for carving. When he was younger, he cut his inner thigh. But that was only once, only one time. When he made his charm, he carved Kronos Disease into a violet candle. And then he dripped peppermint all over it and lit it and said some spell he doesn't remember. The candle burned out quickly. Wax rolled over the bottle. You're not supposed to open it until the healing process is complete.

He'll probably never open it. They'll throw it in his coffin when he's dead.

If only he still had that charm. It's somewhere in his apartment, crushed or smashed or stolen. Now he's standing in a river, the Amazon River. No, it's not real, it's made of chlorine and plastic. The Jungle Cruise is a nice ride. The plants are real, the animals makes noises, and the boat captains always tell puns. The same puns over and over and over and over…

"Jack! Are you done? The auction is in like five minutes."

Jack laughs loudly. "Uh, no. I'm not. And we've got almost an hour, Astrid said so. I can't meet this asshole looking like I just crawled out of a sewer."

"But that's just how you look. No amount of bathing can change that."

"Yeah… hilarious."

Their voices are floating over the rocks. Hic's lounging on top of the waterfall, watching the moon and feeling his scars. Jack is below, standing behind the veil of water. Astrid thought it would be a good idea to freshen up.

She was biting her nails when she said it. "The Father isn't gonna take you seriously if you look gross. You need to look presentable. And you can't look too sick. It's like when humans buy life insurance. If you have too many health problems, they'll assume you're just trying to get free money for your family. So smile, dumbass, look healthy."

Oh wow, if it were only that easy. If he had a dollar every time someone told him to "just act healthy"… damn, he'd be rich.

Water feels good on his skin. He moves in and out of the falls, scrubbing his stomach and spine. It's just chlorinated water, but it's so nice. Cool, clear, refreshing. Jack lets it run down his lips.

Hic's yelling again. "Jack! Hurry the fuck up! Father Time waits for no man!"

Jack doesn't say anything. How can Hic keep joking about this? Can't he sense how nervous Jack is? How scared and angry and sick Jack is? Ever since Astrid told them about the auction, he's been acting weird. Laughing at nothing. Staring straight through Jack like he's not even there.

But Jack is there. He's leaning against the plastic rocks and trying not to scream. He hasn't had an attack in a while. All that deer blood made him lazy. Complacent, too. Magic was wasted left and right. Watering plants, blowing up stores, a bunch of stupid shit he didn't need to do. He used to use magic for everything. Now it's slipping through his veins, the pain is coming back.

It's deep inside. A centered pain, the kind that comes from a rotten core. Vertebrae twist in on themselves, like candles melting in their own wax. Blood curdles, his stomach roils. And now his head is hurting. Something is pressing against his eyes, trying to get out. It's all that blood. Desperate to escape, desperate to push itself through his eyes, nose, and mouth. His hands are pounding the rock over and over and over…

"Jack! Holy Hell, hurry up!"

Jack opens his mouth and blood comes out. Great, maybe he can use that for some blood magic. Hic yells again.

"Hey, witchy!"

Cough and blink and then you're on your knees. Jack tries to hold his head and his stomach but he can't hold both. Maybe he can dig through his skin and pull everything out.

"Uh, Jack? You okay?"

Jack shakes his head. No one can see. He spits into the water and hisses through his teeth. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it hurts so bad.

"Oh gods, Jack!" Hic splashes through the river, water running off his wings. His jeans are soaked through. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

Just start nodding. Nod your head and tell everyone that you're gonna be okay. That's what they want you to do. That's the right thing to do, the considerate thing to do. When Jack used to go out with his friends, they would always say shit like that.

"Stop bringing everyone down."

"God, you're such a whiner. Everyone has problems."

"You're grossing us out, just leave."

How can he stop the blood dripping from his mouth? It's not his fault the bar napkins were painted red. No one touched him. No one smiled at him.

Hic is doing one of those things. He's kneeling in the water and holding Jack with both arms. "Hey… hey, it's okay. I mean, it is okay, right? You're okay?"

Jack shakes his head. Hic can see him this time. "No, I'm not."

"That's fine, too. You don't have to be okay." Jack can feel him shrugging. "You don't, uh, you don't always have to be okay. Okay?"

"T-This isn't the Fault in Our Stars. Shut the fuck up."

"Will do."

They sit in silence. The bathroom was silent, too. Jack heaves and groans and shivers when the pain spikes. It keeps digging deeper, straight into his spine. And his stomach is a mess. All that funnel cake and gator tail and blood. Oh gods, stop thinking about the fucking funnel cake.

Hic's fingers move over his chest. "Your heart's beating really fast. Relax."

"I-I can't relax. Just leave me alone." Jack tries to push him off. "It'll pass… leave me alone."

"No. Turn around, dipshit."

"No…"

Hic grabs his arms. "Turn. Around."

"Let go of me!"

They fight for a few seconds. Hic's nails are long and sharp. Jack flails, rolling his shoulders back and throwing his elbows at Hic's face. What a stupid fight, a warlock versus a demon. In theory, it should be awesome. Magic fire balls and disemboweled deer. But this is just sad.

Hic grabs his shoulders and slams him against the plastic stone. "Damnit, I didn't mean to do it that hard."

"Then what was your intent, huh?" Jack spits out a wad of blood. "What are you trying to do?"

"Help you! Just, just let me help you and hold you and wipe all that blood off your mouth. That's all I want to do."

Jack's either blushing or about to pass out. "Why would you wanna do any of that shit? I always need help, my body's all boney and uncomfortable, and my mouth is disgusting. And I know all of this, I live with it every day. I don't need you to tell me how you'll wipe all my tears away and save me from the jaws of death. I'm not your fucking pet or your fucking project! You want to help me? Help me get to this auction and get my life back!"

Shit, is Hic crying? His eyes are all hot and sparkly like some stupid preteen. Some tween that's fed up with all this drama. Jack was a stupid preteen once. In middle school, he made this one kid cry. He can't remember how he did it, but it happened. Tears ran down an acne-covered face, all those cysts and blackheads.

Hic's face is beautiful. Every inch is freckled and scarred. He wipes the tears away. "You're not my project. You're just a person… and I like helping people."

"Okay, so go help people. There's plenty of people to help."

Hic runs his hands through his hair. "But I want to help you, Jack. I need to help you… before it's too late."

"Why? Why do you need to do this?" Now Jack's mad, his heart is banging against his sternum. "Do you need me to get to Father Time? Do you need my soul, my magic, my ability to pass as normal? Why do you need to keep using me and guiding me and taking care of me all the time?"

"Because I kind of like you. A lot." He grits his teeth when he says it. If only the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Please, Disney, please eat me.

Jack is laughing and coughing up blood at the same time. "No, you don't. You've only known me for a month or something. And you're a demon and I'm practically a zombie."

Hic shrugs. "I could love a zombie."

"So do you like me or love me? Which is it?" It's like he's not even talking. He's hovering somewhere above his body, trying to stay calm.

What he wants to say: "You like me? You might even love me? Holy shit, that's all I want to hear. I just want someone to be with me and love me until the end. That's not selfish, right? All I want is someone to love and fuck, someone that'll hold a garbage can in front of while I'm puking. We could love each other. Maybe. That'd be nice, Hic."

What he actually says: "Stop it, Hic. We have to get to that auction, this isn't the time for… whatever this is supposed to be."

"You just gestured to all of me."

"Whatever. I feel like shit and I don't know what to say to you." He covers his face with his hands and sighs. "Stop making me think I'm letting you down."

Hic furrows his eyebrows. "What? I've never said that."

"You don't have to." Jack staggers to his feet. He can't even stand up straight, the pain is so bad. "I can't tell you I love you, I can't even use my magic that much. And now I'm probably gonna fuck up our meeting with Father Time."

Now Hic's on his feet. "Don't say stupid things. We've been living together for weeks, why can't we talk about stuff like this?"

Jack sighs again. "Because we have to do shit. And it's weird that you're suddenly acting like we're, uh, living together. We're not. We're just cohabiting, mutually benefitting off each other. You're using me and I'm using you."

"I'm not using you." He's not using Jack, right? "Stop talking like that."

"Make me. And by make me, I don't mean kiss me."

"Oh. Well, it's not like I want to kiss you anyways. You smell like blood and puke."

"Yeah, I know that. Maybe after I brush my teeth we can…" His cheeks are burning. "No, no, we can't. Let's just get this auction over with. We can discuss our future after I'm cured."

"Good idea. Yeah." Hic is still waiting for Disney to eat him alive. This is why he should keep his mouth shut. "I'll go get your clothes now. Sorry to bother you, witchy."

He walks as fast as he can without flying. Face red, ears burning, his dick hard. Yes, it's shameful, he knows that. But he's had to stare at a naked, sweaty warlock for the past twenty minutes. Jack's lips make him hard, the way he licks them when he talks. Even when he's small and sick, he still looks cute.

Like some romantic hero full of shitty sonnets, Hic swore he would never love another human. Not after the incident with the stolen diamonds and the creepy comic store. Jack's request was supposed to be like any other work order. Fast and simple. Then he saw those eyes and felt the desperate hands around his neck. Are there any trash cans around here? He really needs to get off.

He is so fucking shameful.

Hic sits next to an animatronic zebra that's being eaten by a lion. It twitches every so often, jerking its pneumatic legs back and forth. All Hic can do is stare and daydream about going on a hunt. Or is it nightdreaming? The moon isn't even out.

 

Jack leans against the rock and tries to catch his breath. This episode is ending, the blood is settling in his bones. There are scratch marks all over his stomach, bloodstains on his hands. One more cough, one more sharp, nasty pain, and it's over. He is nothing but empty spaces. There are voids in his chest and chasms in his legs. You could call it numbing, but the pain is still there. It sits in the background, pressing against his heels. Jack is an expert at apathy. He can conjure numbness as easily as fire. So he takes a deep breath and walks into the waterfall one more time. Blood, spit, and puke spiral into the river.

He meets Hic up top and puts on clean clothes. The tags are still on, everything is stolen from Main Street. A pair of grey sweatpants with the Mickey Mouse logo on the side, some plain black flip flops, and a T-shirt that says I'll Be Your Minnie.

Jack pulls the tags off. "Please tell you didn't get a I'll Be Your Mickey shirt for yourself?"

"Hell, no. I'm not a creep. I'm wearing this one." He holds up a blue T-shirt and starts cutting slits in the back for his wings. "Read it. It says, Turkey Legs, Nice and Juicy! And then it's got Walt Disney World on the bottom."

"Yeah, I can read. Why couldn't you get normal clothes?"

Hic rolls his eyes. "Astrid stole these for us. I just told her what I wanted."

"And you wanted that?"

"I like turkey legs."

 

Hic loves turkey legs, he makes Jack buy him one while he stands in the shadows. The park is closing, tiny families are dragging themselves to the bus loop. Jack and Hic walk down the wide street, past the paddle boat and the darkened kiosk where they sell Jack Skellington plushies. Wrought iron gates that aren't really wrought iron stand between them and the mansion. Everything is new-ancient, fake-real, painted with painstaking detail. Funny how much effort goes into this.

Hic offers to kick the gate open, but Jack wants to try something. He drags his hand across the red brick, up the fake iron and across the padlocks. Drawing magic from deep inside the earth, digging through concrete and foundation and miles of drained swampland. Of course this place would actually be a magic reservoir. What kind of shit joke is that? Jack presses his palm against the lock and exhales. It works, thank the gods. Once they're through, it's like a charm is lifted. There are people on the other side of the gate. People and monsters. Reapers crowd the black, horseless carriage. They drink midnight wine and talk about the average price of a hanged man's soul.

It has decreased by 40% in the past year. In case anyone was wondering.

Astrid's waiting for them in the pet cemetery, perched on one of the tombstones that's made out of plaster of Paris. She's still wearing her cable knit sweater and frayed shorts.

Hic throws up his hands. "You said we had to get new clothes and everything just to meet this guy. You're wearing the same thing you always wear."

She shrugs. "I don't care what the Father thinks of me. I hate these shit gatherings, everyone knows that. But Jack's a stranger and you… well, let's just say the Father remembers you. And there are rules inside the Mansion, you can't be shirtless and you can't cause problems."

"Maybe I should leave."

"Don't be an idiot, Hic. You're not that much of a badass, anyways." She leaps over the stone wall and lands next to them. "Shall we?"

The line isn't too long. Only reapers go to these auctions, save for the few vampires and demons looking for some extra souls. No one gives Hic a second glance, his curved horns and scaled skin are nothing new. And there's a much bigger demon here. A high-level demon of fate with six eyes and a mouthful of teeth. There are whispers about Asmodeus, "Oh man, his casinos are the best in all of Hell. I blew all my savings and lost my wife to a goblin, but damn, those casinos are the best."

Is Carnivean here? No, he prefers the company of witches.

Maybe Crocell is here, slipping unseen through the halls, her dress blue and defying geometry.

The music leaking through the door is awful. Hornblas could be here.

Jack leans against a mausoleum, hands buried deep in his pockets. Every few minutes the line moves and the reapers start laughing.

"Why are they doing that?"

Astrid looks down at him. She's sitting on the mausoleum roof. "They just think it's funny that the Father is making us wait. And by funny I mean not funny. Reapers aren't known for being direct, which is why I don't fit in. They play so many games."

Hic snorts. "And you don't?"

"Shut up. The doors are opening."

If Jack cranes his neck, he can see everything. Two boys with the same face walk out of the mansion. Small grey hands hold the doors open, small grey fingers circle the grain. Hordes of demons and reapers rush inside, like they're being sucked in.

Jack feels like he's being sucked through a straw. It's a milky kind of feeling, a latent lactose lethargy that sits in his stomach. His head is light, floating above the dusty chandeliers. He reaches for the wallpaper and runs his fingers over it.

Hic elbows him. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Good. Just tell me if you're—"

Jack rolls his eyes. Bad idea, the world spins when he does that. "You don't have to pretend to care so much. You're overdoing it. Just act normal."

"What the fuck about me is normal?"

Jack doesn't get to answer. The halls open up and everyone crowds into a room. Trick doors open, the world turns dark, someone screams, a hanging corpse falls. Basically, a lot of unnecessary shit happens. Jack is pressed against Hic, his spine poking his chest. Jack's spine. Hic's chest. Jack's toes are curled into his rubber sandals. Hic's eyes are shut tight in the darkness.

He doesn't want to see too much. This place is wrong, this whole situation is stupid. Did he ever really think they would find Father Time? Was he counting on them never finding him? Something tells him that he was. The whole time. Wishing for failure, hoping that the months would fade away. Then he could lose another friend and have another excuse for revenge. He could find another person to use, to love. Now that the plan is unfolding, he doesn't know what to do. It's too late to back out, but does he want to move forward?

The paneled wall slides open. Hic doesn't flinch, he just follows the crowd into the other room. Black tracks line the floor, massive black chairs go rolling down the line. It's the Haunted Mansion ride, the one that all the tourists ride. Tired parents and handsy couples and tiny children pretending to be brave. Hic and Jack are kind of a mix of all three. Their arms and legs are tired, their hands creep towards each other and pull away, their palms are slick with sweat. Their lips. Their feet. Their bones. Gods, they're nothing but pieces. Hic is a pair of claws digging into the plastic. Jack is a set of eyes, wide and milky.

Astrid takes her own chair. "I like my space. And I wanna take a nap, this place is boring."

So she rides behind them, silent but not sleeping. Her eyes are open, her fingers play with silver chains and shark teeth.

The ride takes them deeper into the mansion, past the portraits and fake trees. The wallpaper glares at them and the air turns cold. Jack tries to wedge himself into the chair. Fuck, there's no more room. Nothing but black plastic and white scuff marks. Hic's handprints are white, too. His hands are balled into fists.

"What's wrong?"

Hic shrugs. "I'm not sure I want to be here anymore."

"We've been looking for this prick for weeks." Jack folds his arms, trying not to shiver. "I've busted my ass for you."

"Yeah, I know. You want a cookie, witchy?"

"No."

Sighing, Hic runs his hands down his face. "Fuck. I'm sorry, Ja—"

"Oh my god, stop talking."

Yeah, shut up, demon. Jack's not made of tissue paper. This is what happens: people start walking on thin ice, they slip away while you slip into death. Why did Hic have to talk about shit like love? This isn't some romantic comedy. This is dark and deadly and demonic. Oh yeah, this shit is intense, seeping between the cracks in Jack's skin. He hugs himself and watches the "ghosts" fly over the "graveyard". Everything is so fake. They pass through a room full of staircases and footprints, Jack swears they've been here before. Are they going in circles?

He leans back in the chair, his ass sliding down the plastic. This ride is longer than his dick on a good day. And his good days are pretty damn good. Before he got sick, he was the biggest dancer at the club. Patrons lined up to see him wear that tiny, red thong. Now he's wearing oversized sweatpants, he no longer has any good days. He's the biggest loser at the mansion.

Again with the staircase room, it looks the same as before. Footprints stick to the glass, wandering over the walls and ceiling. If you forget about the mirrors, the room looks infinite. Eternal. Like the stairs descend into a black hole.

Jack flinches when the brakes squeal. "Why are we stopping?"

"This must be it." Hic pushes the lap bar up. "We've been moving between spaces for a while, passing through wards and stuff. These reapers aren't messing around."

"So this is like Astrid's storage room in It's A Small World?"

"Yeah, it's like my little hideaway." There's a loud bang and she's crouched on top of their chair.

Hic stretches his wings. "You're not a fucking bird, stop perching."

"Shut your mouth, shithead. Maybe I like having the high ground." She climbs off the black plastic and nudges Jack. "So here we are, little witchy. This is it, the big reveal. You ready to meet the Father?"

"No. But I don't think that matters."

"You're right, it doesn't." She's looking around the room, balancing on the tracks and trying not to fall. "I know where to go from here. Follow me, this part is weird."

Astrid's eyes turn red when she cocks her head. Something moves in the darkness, something unseen. It ripples across the mirrors and upside down staircases. Long, silky fingers reach for her wrists and ankles. They're nothing but shadows. They whispers to her, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Astrid Hofferson. Reaper. Invitation confirmed. You have brought guests?"

"Obviously, dipshit."

"Who and what are they?"

She rolls her eyes. "A warlock and a demon. They've cleared all the checkpoints and wards, no further information should be required."

The shadows tighten around her wrists. But only for a second. "The Father decides what is required. This is the Father's house, remember that. You may proceed, reaper."

Astrid's eyes are blue again, blue and angry. The shadows slip back into the mirror, taking the tracks and the chair with it.

Jack almost jumps into Hic's arms, but thinks twice. "What's happening?"

"Relax. It's just a stupid magical illusion, we're not going to fall into the void or anything. See, it's solid." Astrid jumps up and down on the… the nothingness. Nothing happens. "Follow me. Don't think too much about it. Oh yeah, I might look a little different when we get down there. The wards weaken my glamour."

Jack turns to Hic. "You gonna look any different?"

"No. What you see is what you get."

"Good to know."

They follow Astrid up and down the staircases. They're walking on the walls, the ceiling, the edge of the abyss. It feels like they're going in circles, but then the stairs start spiraling into the ground. Fluorescent footprints lead them deeper and deeper. No light, no sound, no touch. Just a musky taste in the back of Jack's mouth. It reminds him of white-tailed deer, the smell of their antlers and velvet. Rubbed raw as the season approaches, red and tender and smelling of blood. For some reason, the thought doesn't make him gag. It's the opposite. He actually feels kinda hungry.

Astrid's back is to him. Nothing seems different. Every once in a while she pulls a clump of hair from her head, but that's it. Blonde strands litter the steps, they fly back and stick to Jack's clothes. Astrid keeps pulling until she's half-bald. Should Jack say something? No. No, he shouldn't.

It's not like he has the energy to think of what to say. His brain is focused on other things, the way the darkness seems to shine, the feeling in bones, the fact that Hic keeps bumping into him.

He turns around. "The hell are you doing? Your night vision can't be that bad."

Hic shrugs. "I'm a demon, not a bat. Worry about yourself, you're going to trip if you're not careful."

"Thanks, dad. I'll keep an eye out for strangers, too."

Damn, look at Jack go. Even when his brain is melting and his nerves are numb, he can still pull out a good comeback. He gives himself a thumbs up and keeps walking.

When the stairs finally end, Jack's mind is twisted in on itself. So dizzy, so fucking dizzy. Hic almost grabs his hand, but thinks twice. Darkness fluctuates and widens into dull, yellow light. This room isn't special, it's just a ballroom with a bunch of tables and black, plastic chairs. And the stage is small, draped in velvet and deerskin. Another one of those boys is standing at a podium, reading from a long ass list that rolls across the stage.

Astrid sighs. "This is it. Not much to look at, is it? And—shit, calm down, Jack. No need to be alarmed, it's just my face."

Yes, yes, that's just her face. Her back is no longer to him. Instead, he gets to look at a face that's ripped apart. The left side looks normal, a blue eye and some skin stretched tight across her cheekbones. But the right half is bare, nothing but a bleached skull.

Hic starts laughing. "You look like Two Face."

"You look like a lizard, so shut up." She pulls out her braid and flips her hair. "I'm a reaper of souls, I have to look scary. The other reapers here are ten times uglier than me."

She's right. Some don't have any skin, they're just walking skeletons. Others look raw and bloody, veins climbing up their arms. They all look dead, though. No one is wearing a black cloak, those things are too cliché. They're all in suits or business skirts, ties and polished shoes. Astrid rolls up the sleeves of her sweater and pushes through the crowd. Someone's blasting Johnny Cash, another is blasting Rihanna.

Astrid looks at Jack's confused face. "Reapers like music. It's a nice distraction."

No one talks to them. A few reapers give Astrid disapproving looks, a few demons laugh and flick Hic's wings. Jack is invisible until a vampire pulls at his pant leg. They smile up at him.

"Oooh, your blood is tainted, baby. I know a few customers that are into that. How much do you want for a few vials?"

Hic growls and slaps their hand away. "Fuck off."

They keep walking. Jack's heart is banging against his sternum, his brain is pounding in his skull. There's too much to see, too much to take in. Reapers sitting at tables, drinking and joking about death. Vampires biting each other, demons fighting in the darkness. Souls are already being sold, being slipped under the table. Money changes hands, shoes change feet. The one rule is this: no fucking, no fornicating. The creation of ungodly hybrids is forbidden in this place. Jack's been with a few monsters in his lifetime. It's just like fucking a person, except you feel it at a cellular level. You notice the differences in your DNA. What would Hic feel like? A demon, a person, a monster, a dragon…

Jack shakes his head. No, now is not the time for that. He keeps walking.

Astrid leads them to a section of the ballroom that's closed off by a dark purple curtain. Guards are posted every few feet, their feet leaden and their eyes open. She stands with her arms crossed.

"I need to talk to the Father."

One of them speaks without looking at her. "He's busy."

"I need to talk to him."

"The auction is about to start, reaper. Please, take your seat."

She rolls her eyes and bares her teeth. "No it's not, these things never start of time. Tell him I've got someone special with me, tell him I've got Lizard Boy with me."

"Listen, ma'am—"

"Just tell him, okay? You're really starting to annoy me. Tell him."

"I can't…"

"Fine." Astrid shrugs and grabs the guard by the face. She bares her teeth, stands on tiptoe, and sucks his soul from his body. No she doesn't suck it, she inhales it. Teeth gnashing at the air, her eye flashing red. She takes a deep breath and the guard crumples at her feet.

She steps over his body. "Let's go."

"I thought reapers couldn't do shit like that?" Jack's pulling at his hair. "You can't kill people, reapers can't do that!"

"I'm gonna give his soul back. I just needed him to shut up for a minute." She licks her lips, the half that still exists. "I can borrow souls for a bit, but I can only reap souls that don't have bodies. Relax, Jack. I didn't kill him."

Hic nudges him forward. "She's telling the truth. Let's just go."

"Whatever."

They keep walking. Once they pass through the curtain, Astrid opens her mouth and a blue orb falls out. She crushes it in her fist.

"Look, there it goes. That guard will wake up with nothing but a blank spot in his memory. Happy now?"

Jack doesn't answer. There's another curtain, it's white this time. Hic parts it with his wings, his eyes are focused on something in the next room. Something unseen. This time, the shadows are everywhere. They're arms and legs and feet and hands. The shadows are tall and long, the shadows are eyes, too. A man made of shadows stands in the middle of the room. There's not much in here, a massive wooden desk, a couple potted plants, and an old-fashioned telephone. What is this guy? One moment he's a shadow, then he's a man, a tall man in a white suit. He keeps shifting between forms, shifting between ages, but he's still Father Time. He still has a scar where his eye should be. He's still a man made of shadows.

He grins at them. "Oh look, it's my favorite reaper. You have to stop stealing my guards' souls, Astrid."

"What are you talking about? You hate me and I never steal your guards' souls. This is the first time."

His smile falters. "I know. That's just my attempt at familiarity. I've always wanted to have a good relationship with my employees, be one of those bosses that has everyone over for dinner." He shrugs and sits on his desk. "But reapers don't make very good friends."

"They make good asskissers, though. They always follow your stupid little dress code. I know you like that."

"Of course. I like it when people do what I say. Which is why I hate you, Astrid."

She grins. It's only a half-grin, of course, but it's still terrifying. "I'm not a people pleaser, Father. What can I say? Now are you gonna keep ignoring Hic or what?"

His smile's back. "I think it's funny to make him wait."

Hic growls, his claws and teeth are bared. Something's weird, something's wrong. Those cute little freckles look more like bloodstains now. His green eyes look sick. Jack reaches for him and watches his hand get slapped away.

"Hic?"

"Let it go. It looks like Hic has forgotten all about manners." Astrid's still grinning. She notices the muscles in Hic's thighs, the coils in his calves. But she doesn't stop him. Why would she? Who doesn't want to see a demon in a turkey leg shirt rush Father Time?

That's exactly what he does. Wings unfurled, claws scraping the floor. He throws Father Time against the desk and pins him down.

"How about this? You think this is fuckin' funny?!"

Father Time laughs. "Kind of. You know you can't kill me."

"Yeah, well, I can always take your other eye."

"That would be annoying. I can't replace these eyes, Hic." He sighs and looks off into space. "Ever since you stole my other one it's been a pain trying to look into the future. Takes me twice as long now."

"Sucks." Hic digs his claws into his neck. "Maybe I'll pop your eye out and eat it in front of you… yeah, that would be hilarious."

"Hic! What are you doing?" Jack tries to run toward him. Astrid holds him back with one arm.

Hic is knee deep in this guy, disappearing into the shadows. Look, he's kneeling on the desk. Now he's kneeling on a man, a boy, a teenager. He won't wipe the drool off his chin, it drips down his neck. "I didn't follow all your rules and play your stupid games just to look at you. You know why I'm here. You know why I'm chasing you."

Father Time sighs. "You're not still trying to bargain for your father's soul, are you? When are you going to give that up? I'm not giving him back, he's gone."

"But you can't do that! You can't take people before their time!" Hic slams his fist against the desk. "That's not how this works!"

"I can do whatever I want, Hic. You challenged me, you lost, and your father was my prize." He grabs Hic's claws and bends them back. Of course he can escape, he's stronger than all of them combined. "That's what happens when you go after someone like me. You lose."

Hic jumps back, tears in his eyes. "You were cheating! You were taking souls from living people, taking them before their time. And you're not supposed to do that. You're a neutral figure, asshole, all you're supposed to do is monitor time! I had to stop you!"

"Well, you failed there. You didn't stop me and you lost your father, looks like you're a loser, Hic."

"Shut u—"

"Enough." He raises his hand and shadows wrap around Hic's legs. "I know what happened all those years ago. I was there. I respect your 'morals', demon. But, you see, demons aren't supposed to care about that. They're supposed to do as they're told. Your insubordinate behavior made Lucifer look like a fool. So your punishment was just. But, like all punishments, it can be reversed. And it seems that you have brought me a little sacrifice…"

Jack's locked in Astrid's arms. She keeps whispering, "Stop it. Let Hic get it out of his system. Stop struggling, Jack. Stop it."

But now he's limp. No, he can't be a… what did he say? A sacrifice?

Are you using me, Hic?

"Hic… what the fuck is he saying?"

"He's a liar!" Hic spits at Father Time's feet. "Jack is not a sacrifice, I would never trade a living soul."

Father Time shrugs. "That's true, I suppose. You do hate violence, don't you, Hic? You hate fighting. That's why it was so funny when you attacked me. It's so unlike you. I can see your past, all the humans you've tried to save, all the humans you've loved…"

"If you're trying to freak me out you're in for a rough night." Hic folds his wings and lets the shadows wind around his waist. "Let me go and we can talk. I didn't come here to fight you, I just wanted to remind you that I'm still here. And I'll never leave you alone."

"Oh all right, tell me what you want." A snap of the fingers and the shadows are gone, retreating into the walls. "Everyone take a seat."

Three leather chairs appear. Jack takes the middle one, Astrid and Hic on either side.

Father Time sits on his desk. "So what do you want, Lizard Boy? I have an auction to facilitate, the reapers are probably rioting by now."

"I want my father's soul."

"Please, we just talked about this…"

Hic doesn't want to say it, but he's come this far. He's here in this room, talking to this man, and his plan is dancing on the edge of a knife. They made a contract, right? Yes. They did. He points at Jack. "This warlock made a contract with me. I get his soul when he dies. But first I have to hold up my end of the bargain. He has Kronos Disease, I know there's no cure, but I know you can fix it. Can't you?"

"Of course I can. I can't just snap my fingers, but, with the proper incentive, I can heal Kronos Disease." The shadows rise up from the desk, holding a piece of paper. "You'll need to kiss my ass, of course. And you'll need to find a few items for me first. Here's a list—"

"Wait." Jack is on his feet, his hands are shaking. "So this is the plan? I get healed, then Hic waits around for me to die of old age or some shit, then he takes my soul and trades it for his dad?"

Father Time folds the list into a paper airplane. "Sounds about right."

"Fuck you, buddy." He looks at Hic. "Is this seriously the plan?"

"It's not that simple. I mean, uh, you did make a contract with me. And you're gonna get cured…"

"And then I'm gonna end up in this asshole's pocket when I die." His hands are in his hair, they're running down his face. What is going on? "So you were using me this whole time. You were holding up your end of the bargain, that's it. All that stuff you said about asking Father Time to change Destiny was crap. You knew he could heal me. He'll heal me and then you're gonna give him my soul when I die."

Hic's face is red, his knuckles are bone white. "Well shit, Jack, did you think you'd get healed for free? There's always a price, right? I told you I wanted your soul. You agreed, yeah? I didn't know you when you summoned me, you were just another witchy."

"Just another witchy." Jack gives a hollow laugh. "Okay, okay, that makes sense. I mean, why else would you help me. It's not like you recently professed your love to me or anything."

Astrid covers her mouth with both hands. Those fingers can't hide that smile. Hic's face is burning, his palms are red with blood. Damn those claws burrowing into his skin. And damn this silence that hangs over the room like a fucking plague. Jack wants to cry, but thinks twice.

Hic whispers into the silence. "I didn't like you then… I was just looking for a contract… you agreed. But now I—"

"Doesn't matter." Jack is shaking his head. "Yeah, I agreed 'cause I was fucking dying and in pain. But I didn't think that… I just didn't think that after all this time… I don't know."

There's that silence again. This time it hangs over them like a haze of mosquitoes. Astrid is still gasping, her mouth wide.

Father Time looks uninterested. He stares at the ceiling. "I don't really care about all this, but Hic's right about one thing, warlock. These transactions are binding, and it appears that you agreed to the terms. You can't get things for free, you have to pay a price. And if I don't get to the auction, I will be paying a price. So please, if you would all leave, that would be great." He pushes back the curtain. "Stay for the auction if you want. But don't talk to me for the rest of the night, please. It sounds like you have a lot of issues to sort out and I'm not in the mood for drama."

Hic, Jack, and Astrid exit through the white curtain.

Father Time slips into the shadows.


	8. That Time Paper Felt Like Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, almost two months later... sorry about that. Unfortunately, school comes first so this update had to wait. But here we are, a new update.
> 
> It's a pretty decent size, with plenty of dialogue and weird descriptions. Some notes, I use quotes from Macbeth twice in this chap. "Hover through the fog and filthy air" and "take my milk for gall" are both from that play. Also, I use some nifty roman numerals in this section to show various viewpoints on one event, so have fun with that.
> 
> This chapter kind of marks the halfway point of the fic, so there's plenty more to come. Oh, and I have been trying to put together a playlist for this fic, if you have any song recs, leave them in the comments. 
> 
> Warnings: violence, smut reference, blood/gore, language, reference to murder/suicide and self-harm, severe illness, and plenty of angst and pathetic moping. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> -Alice

Paper feels remarkably like skin. Hic holds the airplane with his index fingers. He turns it over and over, not caring if he gets a papercut. Father Time is too good for frayed edges, the sides of the airplane are smooth and perfect. But Hic wishes they were sharp, sharp like a fucking knife. Someone needs to drag a serrated blade against his skin. Someone needs to poke him with needles, dig out his heart and eat it in front of him. Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic, but something needs to be done. Hic's skin is itching all over, crying out to be harmed.

Because he fucked up. He fucked up real bad. The anger is still making him shiver, it burns in his fingertips and toes. There's this kind of a feeling, one that seeps through your body like poison. It's cold and hot and prickling. Hic takes a deep breath and crushes the paper airplane in his fist.

That hurts Father Time's feelings. He'll send Hic a strongly worded letter in weeks to come. But for now, he's on stage, standing behind the podium and playing auctioneer. Little grey-skinned boys stand around him, still and silent.

Jack's skin is grey tonight. Ever since the meeting, he's looked different, different in a bad way. His face is the color of death, all pale and gross and splotchy. Eyes sunken in, ringed in a weird color that isn't black or blue. That milky sadness is back. His head is light and spinning. It replays scene after scene:

His dark and shuttered apartment, black candles melting on the floor. And Hic's face pushing through the smoke. No, his face hovered, it never pushed. It hovered through the fog and filthy air. Now he's thinking about words. Hic said, "I want your soul." Jack said, "Okay." Then Hic made fun of him and said, "At least I didn't sell my soul to a demon." Jack said, "Okay." Or maybe he didn't. Whatever was said, Jack remembers the contract. Of course he knew the price, that's why he summoned a demon. But something said in pain should not be trusted. There was blood dripping down his chin when he said okay.

Someone touches the back of his neck. He's sitting on the floor with his head between his knees. Hic and Astrid are somewhere else, not that Jack cares. He heard them whispering, Astrid's bloody lips moving fast.

"Give him some space. Let's stay here for a bit, wait for everyone to calm the hell down."

And Hic's lips were shut tight. He just nodded and ran his hands down his face. A warped face, the edges of his mouth quivering and twitching. Like he's some kid being put in the time-out chair. When Jack saw the tears in his eyes, he almost said sorry.

But why should he be sorry?

It's Hic's fault. It's all Hic's fault.

Someone touches his neck again. Their fingertips are hot, smoking like lit cigarettes.

He doesn't look up.

"Hey… hey, you're a human. Kind of. Is your soul up for auction, sweetheart?"

Jack hisses through his teeth. "Get the fuck away from me."

He can hear shuffling feet and the crinkle of satin. The voice loses all of its honey, the fingers against his neck turn cold. "You're so rude. I'm trying to make conversation."

"No, you're really not." Jack stares at the floor. There's a prickling in his chest that makes it hard to breathe. "Take your manipulative bullshit elsewhere, monster. Yeah, that's what you are, a monster."

Now the voice is mad. The fingers are drawn back, and then they're locked and loaded and slapping the back of Jack's head. He doesn't wince.

"Shit, have some respect. You're some pathetic human sitting in the corner and I'm trying to be nice to you." More shuffling, more crinkling satin. They're smoothing their jacket and clearing their throat. "No one else is talking to you, no one else is interested in your soul. Be courteous, at least."

Jack starts laughing. It bounces off the tile and hits him in the face. Everything is either muffled or loud, caught up in the little dome he's created. Legs, arms, and skull. His laughter is all caged up. "Sorry, my soul already belongs to someone. Well, it belongs to another monster. Gods, I am so sick of you. I'm so sick of monsters."

They unsheathe something. Jack can't see what it is. "What if I carved out your soul right now?"

It all happens so fast. The prickling gets worse, it climbs up his throat and into his face. Then it sits and bubbles, hot and painful and ready to burst. He must look like an angry tomato, or a red water balloon full of blood. And then he's standing up and strangling the monster with both hands. This is new, this is terrifying. A kind of fiery discomfort that turns his milky sadness into anger.

What that's line from Macbeth? Take my milk for gall…

Maybe he's a secret alchemist. Transmutation is possible. After all, he is a warlock. A witch, a wizard. He doesn't transmute metal into gold, he transmutes pain. A headache becomes the energy he needs to stay awake, a cut becomes momentary joy, a stomachache drips down into his pelvis and becomes desire. Yes, this is one way to phrase it. Oh, cool, let's call it alchemy and dress his illness up in something pretty. Forget the fact that the pain never leaves, it just moves from one place to another. It takes other forms. This isn't alchemy… he has no control over this.

He has no control over his hands. They grip and shake and tear into someone's throat. Suddenly he's on his feet, holding this person up by their neck. Slamming them against the wall, he growls and wipes the blood off his nose. It keeps coming, blood and tears and other things. It's like he's got a faucet in his face, some shitty, broken faucet that just popped.

"Leave me alone. Okay?"

Someone says something, but it doesn't matter. Some bats are squeaking overhead, caught up in the plastic rafters that are sprayed with artificial dust. Some rats are in the corner, chewing on their own tails. Some reaper is collecting her prize, some demon is holding up his paddle. Some auctioneer is rambling away.

"Two million dollars. Yes, two million dollars. Do I hear two point five? Do I hear three? Four, four million dollars? Sold for three million dollars."

What was sold? Who is the demon? Who is the auctioneer?

Who cares?

Father Time doesn't matter anymore. Straight white teeth look yellow in the fluorescents, pinstripes look grey and faded. Everything is fading, damnit.

Jack tightens his grip. "You gonna leave me alone now? Yeah?"

"Y-Yes, lemme go. Please…"

"Bastard." Jack wants to say "pathetic", but he can't. He lets go and walks away, rubbing his hands together.

No one sees him slip into the bathroom. If they do see him, they don't care. Hiccup is keeping his distance, tucked into a grimy corner with his wings spread wide. For some reason, Hiccup wants to feel big.

The bathroom isn't big. It's long and thin, with black tile all over the walls. All the stall doors are black, too, black and wet and covered in graffiti. Jack can read some of it if he looks in the mirror. But he's busy stuffing paper towels under his nose. Blood drips down his lips, it just won't stop. He spits into the sink, tries to shove a paper towel up each nostril, and spits again. Fuck, it's pouring into his mouth. All of the lines in his face become blood canals. The dry, scabby lines around his mouth and the tiny lines of dehydration around his lips. When he tries to wipe the blood away, it smears across his face. Look in the mirror now, witchy, you look like a prime murder suspect. He sticks his head under the sink, he lies on his back and begs gravity to suck it all back in. Nothing works. He has to let the heat drain from his face, the same way you let hot water drain from a faucet. So Jack sits on the countertop and reads the graffiti. A pile of paper towels to his left, a roll of bloody toilet paper to his right. Everything in the shoebox bathroom is bloody, it looks like a crime scene. Jack's hands stick to the tile.

He sits on the countertop and lets his nose bleed all over his clothes. What kind of pathetic shit is this? A bone-thin puppet with pasty skin clings to a countertop. His knuckles are white and red, his pants are spotted with blood. Go ahead, point at the purples bruises under each eye and the cracks in his lips. Point and laugh, laugh until you choke. Jack may be a puppet with scrambled insides, but he's a puppet held together by magic. He can feel it pulsing in the soles of his feet. All that heat in his face and in his arms, it leaks out of his burning nose.

Can he breathe? Can he think? This canned heat is too much, he slouches against the mirror and closes his eyes. Thinking about the pain that never goes away, he closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

Power surges in his sleep. Flames dance in his palms, smoke out, and start dancing again. When he takes a deep breath, the fluorescents flicker. Blood dries and cracks, tendons twitch. There are a million micro-movements, tiny disturbances in the air. Everything is moving around Jack, for Jack, and because of Jack.

He's dreaming about grass… of all the stupid things. But there are many types of grass in this awkward little state. The state that sticks out of the North American continent like an overenthusiastic dick. If this lasts for more than six hours, the United States should really call a doctor. Jack's lived here for a while. His family came from up north, where the seasons change and no one goes mudding in big monster trucks. Why did they leave those tall trees that reached into the sky? Jack doesn't even remember that era, all he can remember are brown palm trees and green coconuts. Some palms turn black in the rain. He likes watching the bark bleed during thunderstorms. It's fibrous and flimsy and full of woodpecker holes. Jack likes the grass that grows around the trees. Some of it is dark green, the blades are long and sharp and scratchy. Some of it is short and light, you can see all of the sand and seashells. Then there are patches of weeds, nothing but weeds. And bugs hover over it all. The mosquitoes are always there, they sniff out the sweet blood sleeping in your thighs. The lovebugs come in swarms, they fuck in the air and throw themselves against your windshield. Idiots. Jack used to hate them all, now he misses them.

The mosquitoes won't drink his blood anymore.

The lovebugs won't make love on his windshield.

So he dreams about lying in a bed of weeds and being eaten alive by bugs. It feels kinda nice. Mosquitoes purify his blood, lovebugs use his body as a bed. They use him up until he is nothing but a pile of white bones. Maybe that's what he really wants.

His fingers start scratching at his skin. Pins prick at his fingertips, needles bury themselves in the soles of his feet. He's asleep and drawing blood. Fuck, fuck, is it black? Is it black or just dark red? He doesn't know, he's sleeping and scratching and trying to wake himself up. The lights are flickering faster, the faucet is spitting water. Then he turns his head and the mirror shatters.

"T-The fuck?" His eyes pop open and so does the door.

"Jack! Holy Hell, Jack!" Astrid is standing in the doorway, teeth bared. "I knew something was wrong, I knew it. But what's wrong? Tell me. Oh shit, you're bleeding…"

"Astrid?"

She shrugs as she walks. "Who else?"

"I thought you were… nevermind." Jack tries to rub his eyes. "Shhhit, I can't move my arms."

"Hold on a sec." She walks around the bathroom, looking at the blood and broken glass. Fingers tapping her chin, tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth. "Wow, you did all this?"

"I… I don't know." He sighs and tries to rub his eyes again. "But I can't fucking move, you wanna help with that?"

"You really can't move? I thought you were being dramatic." Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. She turns her blue eye towards him. "Let me examine you, dipshit. Don't—I was about to say don't move, but I guess that isn't a problem."

Her laugh sounds just like the broken mirror. Jack's covered in slivers of glass. Nestled into the corner of the bathroom, blood running down his arm, he watches Astrid pick the shards from his clothes. Her fingers are gentle. Maybe this is how she handles human souls. One by one, she slips the shards into her mouth. Chew, swallow, chew, swallow.

"I like the way glass feels when it goes down." You can see the powder on her teeth. "Don't judge me, asshole. We all have our guilty pleasures. Now don't—damnit, I almost said don't move again."

She clears all the glass away. No one says a word, no one asks what happened or what is happening now. Weeks, months, maybe even years later, Astrid finishes picking the shards from his clothes. She grabs his face with both hands.

"You still with me?"

Jack nods. "You're finally done."

"It only took like five minutes. Are you still stuck?"

Yes. The needles pin him down. There's too much something in his limbs. Too much magic, too much blood. He licks his lips. "Where… where's Hic?"

"In the ballroom. He's probably moping in a corner and pretending to watch the auction."

"But, but why didn't he come…"

She doesn't look at him when she talks. Her hands are too busy pulling at his fingers. "I didn't tell him I was coming to check on you. I said I had to take a shit and then I opened the door and there you were, convulsing against a mirror. I knew something was up. Tell me, why is your nose all bloody?"

He tries to move his shoulders. Doesn't work. "Wait, I-I'm confused. Why isn't he here?"

"He just isn't. I told you, he's being a baby in the ballroom."

"But why are you here?" Jack wants to punch her in the face, but not really. He blinks and looks at the floor. "Why did you open the door? Why wasn't it— I-I-I thought he loved…"

"Are you crying?" She takes a step back. Her fingernails dig into the cable knit sweater. "Are you seriously crying right now?"

"N-N-No, this is my happy face. The fuck you think?" He can't even wipe his nose. Snot mixes with dried blood and tears. What a lovely mixture, some witch should bottle it up and sell it. They can call it Clamantes Ferreo Canis Exprimamus. Such a long name, but it makes it sound more effective. Latin makes everything better.

Back at the cabin in the swamp, Hic whispered Latin as Jack fell asleep. Or maybe that was a dream.

He blinks and looks at the ceiling. There's not much to see, his eyes are full of tears. "Can we leave? Please? I-I hate this place and I want to kill Father Time but I can't move and I want to kill Hic, too… but I can't. C-Can we just leave?"

No answer.

"Astrid?"

"I'm here."

"Can we—"

"Shut up. Let me think for a second." She's standing in the middle of the bathroom. Her fingernails are still pulling at the cable knit sweater, her teeth are still coated in powder. But her eye is wide, her hands are shaking. "Want to hear a secret, Jack? I really, really like my job. I hate the people I work with and I hate my boss, but I like what I do. I like helping good souls, I like devouring the bad ones. There is so little justice in the world. A month ago, I ate the soul of an abusive man. He died in a petty bar fight, which sucks because he deserved much worse. But I ate his soul slowly and I heard him screaming." She looks up at Jack. "I can hear your soul screaming, too, Jack. But you're not a bad person. I would never eat your soul, I would never buy or sell it. And neither would Hiccup, I know that for a fact."

Now he really wants to punch her in the face, but not really. He can barely see her through the film of tears. "But he said he would. He said."

"He just feels trapped. That's partially his own fault, but I still understand." Her hands stop shaking. She holds them up and cracks each knuckle. "Hic is an idiot that thinks too much. He's too 'intellectual' to have common sense. I, on the other hand, have plenty of common sense. You guys need to get the hell out of here, I get that. But I don't need to go with you."

Jack sniffs. "You're leaving?"

"No. You are. I'm gonna stay here and have a grand ol' time." She crackles her knuckles again. "I'll go get Hic, then I'll take care of everything."

"We… I don't need that. I can just leave, no one cares."

There's that Reaper smile. It tears her face apart, strips of skin fall to the floor. "Did you really think the Father was gonna let you leave? Shit, you're just as stupid as Hic. Yeah, the Father gives Hic a cute little note and tells you guys to enjoy the auction. Oh yeah, he totally meant that. That's what he does, asshole, he makes you think you're safe. He makes sure you're not watching the clock. Then he swoops in and gets you." She rips the rest of the skin off her face. Now she's nothing but a skull and a blue eye. "But not today. I'm not in the mood for his games."

 

What happens next can be told in several ways.

It can be explained, textbook style, typed up in 12-point Times New Roman font and delivered to your nearest news station. Astrid walks out of the bathroom and whispers in Hic's ear. Astrid punches a vampire in the face and laughs when they bite her knuckles. Astrid picks up the vampire with both hands and screams, "Fuck this auction! I want my money back!" And then they riot. Father Time rolls his eyes and leaves the stage.

"These people are so uncivilized."

He walks no further. He does not pursue. Through the haze of blood and fighting, Hic walks into the bathroom. He holds Jack against his chest and flies up through the air ducts.

That's it. End of story.

What happens next can be shouted, breathless, from the roof of a broken down house. It can be angrily written in a manifesto and given to the masses. The story of Astrid, bleached face shining in the fluorescents, her fists swinging back and forth. She runs to Hic and grabs him by the shoulders. When she whispers in his ear, she can hear his blood running through his veins. She rams her foot up a vampire's ass and punches him in the face. Pointed teeth go flying. Blood on her bones, she lifts the vampire over her head and screams, "Fuck this auction! I want my money back!" And then the ballroom erupts. Now that the ice has been cracked, everyone can stop acting so civilized. They've been waiting for something like this.

Father Time trips over the microphone cord, his eyes go rolling. "These… these people, they're so uncivilized!"

His plan is ruined.

Hic appears in shadow. Before Jack can speak, he grabs the warlock's sick little body and disappears into the darkness. There they go, flying up into the night, through air ducts and wires and mechanical parts. The moon greets them when they rise.

But that all sounds a little dramatic, don't you think? Moons don't have hands, moons can't say hello. And Father Time would never care enough to shout. Hic is not a hero, neither is Astrid. Reapers do not live or feel. They just are. And demons are too full of fire to think straight.

What happens next can be whispered in embarrassment. What happens next can be told from four different angles.

I.

Hic is leaning against the wall. He's trying to wedge himself deeper into the corner, but at the same time his wings are trying to spread across the paint. Everything is a contradiction. He's annoyed with Jack, he loves Jack. He hates himself, he knows he's doing the right thing. He's ashamed, his dick is hard and pressing against his pants.

What happens when you're body doesn't match your mind?

Hic sighs and looks at the plate of cold shrimp. He balances it on his lap, condensation forming circles on his thighs. They taste well enough. Cold and sharp and bright. Father Time's flesh probably tastes like this, all white and empty. If Hic dipped these suckers in some tartar sauce they wouldn't taste that bland. But he doesn't want to wait in line at the buffet table. There are too many people.

So he eats his shrimp in silence. Astrid left a while ago, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Not such a good idea right now, not when his thoughts are jumping from suicide to murder. If he offered himself to the Father one more time, maybe that would be enough. If he flew full speed at the ceiling maybe the contract would be broken. Or he could kill everyone at the auction, create a Ballroom Massacre. Then news would spread of the Father's incompetence and after a lengthy investigation of six months and two days he would be tried… and demoted… maybe demoted…

Or he could just kill the old man right here, right now.

"Shut up, shut up." Hic bites the head off a shrimp. It tastes like nothing.

A desire demon slides over to him. Their ass is round and thick, you can see all the curves beneath the patent-leather. Desire is different for everyone. When Hic looks at them, he sees a lot of things. For a second, he sees blue eyes and a pair of spit covered lips. This demon must lick their lips a lot, just like… just like…

Hic shakes his head and eats another shrimp.

"Hey, baby. You look pensive tonight." The demon cocks their head. "What are you thinking about?"

"The cold embrace of the grave. You?"

"Ew. Creep." And then they slide away, disappearing into the crowd.

Hic wants someone to bite his head off. Any takers?

The shrimp are gone when Astrid walks out of the bathroom. Hic drags his fingers across the plate, picking up the shrimpy residue. Pathetic, don't you have enough food?

No. He doesn't have enough of anything.

Astrid looks weird. She's pulling at her sweater and gritting her teeth.

"What's your problem, skullhead? Lose your face in a cardgame?"

She doesn't laugh. "Shut up. I have to tell you something." Then she leans forward and presses her skinless skull against his cheek. "Jack is in the bathroom. Go get him and leave."

"Huh? I'm enjoying the food…"

"Go get him and leave. When the shit hits the fan, just run."

He rolls his eyes. "Okay, sure. Let me know when the shit is hitting. You're acting weird, Astrid, have a drink or something."

She sighs. "See ya around, Hiccup." And then she walks over to the white tables and the plastic chairs.

Hic doesn't actually see Astrid punch the vampire. His eyes are preoccupied with all the shrimp veins. But when Astrid screams, he looks up. It goes from zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds. Teeth go flying, people start remembering who they hate and why. The ballroom is full of fighting and Hic is just trying to pick a piece of shrimp out of his molars.

Now he understands. Jack is waiting for him in the bathroom.

He's sliding all over the tile, running towards the half-shut door. When he kicks it open, he almost hits Jack in the face.

"Hic? The hell are you—"

"We have to get out of here." He puts Jack's hands around his waist. "Hold on. Don't let go, I'll get us out of here."

Jack says something but Hic can't hear.

You're supposed to wait an hour after eating before flying, that's what they teach you. Humans teach the same thing, but they talk about swimming instead of flying. Hic's never been swimming. Wouldn't his wings weigh him down?

Doesn't matter. He holds Jack tight and drags the shadows from under the countertop. Shadow jumping is hard enough, but vertically? It's almost impossible. Eyes closed, he tries to imagine the layers of darkness. The Haunted Mansion is full of shadows, just how the ballroom is full of fighting. Yes, yes, he can do it. He can sense the flickers of light. There are no shadows in the sky, but he's not aiming for the clouds. Just the roof, the big, sloping roof made out of plaster of Paris. He looks for the shadows that no one controls. Father Time owns most of the darkness here. But not all of it. There they are, little slivers of black and grey. He holds Jack tight and jumps.

II.

Astrid just wants to make a few things clear:

She likes her skull, it's strong and smooth and scarred in some places. Most people are afraid when they see it. She likes that Hic doesn't flinch when she presses her face against his cheek.

Helping Hic was always the plan. But helping Jack is… new. For some reason, she wanted to cry when he talked to her in the bathroom. Maybe she understands his pain?

The vampire she punched was not random. It's the one that grabbed Jack before the auction. The one that said, "Baby, your blood is tainted". She's had her eye on him for a while, watching the way he sips his wine and slips his hand over people's thighs.

Part of her is hoping Father Time will kill her. Just try it, Old Man. Just try it.

III.

Father Time sees it all, but he doesn't care. Really, he does not care. He's standing on the stage, reading the description of a notorious cannibal's soul. The shit hits the fan before he finishes the last sentence.

How rude and inconvenient.

He almost trips on the microphone cord, laughs, and rolls his eyes. How clumsy and absentminded.

"These people are so uncivilized."

One of the little grey boys raises his head. "What, Master?"

"Nothing. They are, after all, monsters. I should never have expected otherwise. I know what the blonde reaper is up to, it's clever, really."

"Should we go after them, Master? Should we go after them like you said before?"

"No. It doesn't matter. Let them go. No matter what they do, I'll get a soul in the end." He taps his fingers against his chin. "The soul of Stoick the Vast or the soul of a powerful witch. Either way, I win."

"Isn't he a warlock, Master?"

Father Time wrinkles his eyebrows. "I don't know… there's so much debate about that term. I figure it's safer just to call him a witch, don't you? Wouldn't want to offend my soon-to-be guest."

When he smiles, the little grey boy backs away.

IV.

Jack doesn't see any of it. The punch, the fight, the teeth flying through the air. But he hears it, gods does he hear it. Muffled voices trapped behind a bathroom door, everyone sounds like they're underwater. His ears are full of blood and silence. He stares at the door, the ceiling, then back at the door. Then the ballroom gasps. All of the oxygen is sucked out of air. It's funneled into the bathroom, where Jack is standing by the door, panting and breathing hard.

When did he stand up?

The counter is so far away, bloody and disgusting and looking like a vampire's dirty little secret. That's what Jack is, the secret you shove into the broom closet and never look at again. There's so much blood. Most of it is dry now. Jack had to peel himself off the shattered mirror, listen to his clothes creak and crack. Now he's staring through the slit in the door and listening to Astrid scream. China plates and wine glasses fall to the floor. Someone lights a tablecloth on fire. All Jack can do is cower in the bathroom, body shaking because it's so damn cold. His blood was hot and now it's all over the floor. Quick, maybe he can shove it back in. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack is always fucking sick.

He crouches because his knees are weak. There's carnage in the ballroom, demon blood flows across the tile. One of those vampires is lapping it up with a forked tongue. Look at this mess. They went from slipping souls under the table to outright stealing them. From forced smiles to fanged screams. From civilization to this.

Jack backs up just in time. The door hits the wall and snaps off its hinges. It's some angry demon with beautiful green eyes…

"Hic? The hell are you—"

"We have to get out of here." He grabs Jack and won't let go. "Hold on. Don't let go, I'll get us out of here."

Shadows crawl across the floor and tug at Hic's feet. Jack wants to scream. What's going on? Where's Astrid? Where are they going?

But all he manage is a hoarse whispers and it's not like Hic can hear him anyways. It's not like Hic cares.

"I thought you would never come. I thought you didn't love me anymore."

Yeah, it's probably a good thing Hic didn't hear that.

Whatever.

It doesn't matter. All that matters is escape. Shadows lift them through the mansion, past electric wires and cables. Big, black seats and plaster of Paris. Hic fades in and out of the darkness, clutching Jack to his chest. See nothing but shades of black and grey… hey, shades of grey… isn't that some shitty book? Jack wouldn't know, he doesn't read as often as he used to. If he stares at the page for too long, the words start to blur. But he can write, that's the weird thing. He can write in his spell journals and drag chalk across the sidewalk.

You can create but you can't consume.

Hic rises through the roof and stands at the edge of the Haunted Mansion. Silent. The blood is roaring in his ears, but that's it. That's all he hears. The Magic Kingdom is quiet, the cobblestone streets are empty. If it weren't so fucking cloudy you could see the stars, but the humidity is too high. Hic can't even see the moon. All he gets is a blurry circle that reminds him of handprints on a shower door. Condensation running down the glass, soap pooling at your feet.

"You can put me down now."

Hic looks down at Jack. "No. I can't. You're all bloody and can barely stand."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah, I can agree with that. Fuck me. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw."

Jack wants to laugh or cry but the blood loss is getting to him. He curls up in Hic's arms and lets the darkness take him. But whose darkness is it, anyways?

 

It's raining when Jack wakes up. One of those light Fall rains that promises cooler weather. At 9:20 AM, it's 72 degrees, and it feels like 72 degrees, too. What a beautiful day, this shit won't last. But let's take it for what's it worth. A few hours of dulled sunshine, a reason to wear some combat boots and a light sweater. The mosquitoes are sleeping in the weeds. The asphalt is black as ink, the puddles of water are warm to touch. The wilderness is saturated with dirt and fertilizer and silver and dew. Even the sand is wet like molding clay. Jack could build some new organs, make a muddy heart and shove it inside his body.

It's a nice day, isn't it? Slight breeze, grey clouds, echoes of warm sunlight on the floor. With every drop of water, the cabin creaks and groans. This place is full of humidity, even the plants are sweating. Take a deep breath. Everything tastes primordial. Everything tastes like death.

Jack lies tangled in red sheets. Wait, didn't these used to be white? His clothes are different, a big, white T-shirt and no pants.

Someone stands behind him. "You have to move now. I have to change the sheets. They're covered in blood again. Can you move?"

Jack looks at his arm. It's stretched across the bed. Doesn't even look like an arm, just a long white stick. A long, white, generic brand cheese-stick. He tries to open his mouth. "Nnngh…"

"I'll take that as a no."

He tries again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it even hurts to breathe. There's not enough space inside him, everything is packed together. His lungs are hot and heavy, full of condensation. And his muscles and joints are swollen, drowning in blood. Aflame, alight, agitated. Everything feels engorged. The pain in his stomach is worse than ever. Whatever. He lies on the bloody sheets and grits his teeth. The nose bleeds just keep coming.

"I…" He takes a breath. "I… feel… like… death."

"I know."

He grits his teeth even harder. "No. You don't. No, Hic."

Hic laughs. It's a sad, sad laugh. He's wearing plaid boxers and an oversized T-shirt. "I'm glad you recognize me. Last time you woke up, you called me a devil and puked all over me. Had to take off my pants, they're covered in blood."

Jack tries to laugh. It's a scratched CD sort of laugh. "Good."

"I'll roll you over now. I need to change the sheets."

He would scream if he could. But all he can manage is a whisper. "No. Don't touch me. It hurts."

"What hurts?"

"Everything."

For a second, Hic looks like he's about to cry. Hands wrapped up in his T-shirt, eyes shining in the muted sunlight. For a second, they're just normal people in a normal cabin, having a normal fight about normal things. But then Hic clicks his fangs together and the second is lost. He runs his hands through his hair and sighs.

"I, uh, think I have a way to fix that." He pulls a wad of paper from his pocket.

Jack can't move his head. His eyes follow Hic's hand. "Why does your underwear have pockets?"

"I bought them on the Internet. That's not the point." He holds up the sheet of paper. "See this list? It's what Father Time gave me, it's a list of all the ingredients needed to save your life."

"He gonna bake me a magic cake?"

"I don't know. But he gave me this list, he made a deal. He can't go back on his word now."

Jack coughs. "Yeah… I know how important deals are to you people."

Another sigh, another sad laugh. "Let's just do what the list says. It's all we have."

"It's all I have, Hic. You have my contract, you have my soul, that's all you need." A spasm of pain starts in his chest and makes his fingers twitch. Hissing through his teeth, Jack rolls himself to the other side of the bed and curls up in a tight little ball. "T-There. Now you can change the fucking sheets."

"Okay."

Hic never changes them. He lies next to Jack, feeling the blood break beneath him. It's dry and cracked, turning to dust under his body. This place is death and darkness and sunshine and iron. Hic takes a deep breath and looks at Jack. His back is to him, covered in bruises and goosebumps, and on top of that, thick, white cotton. The T-shirt still smells new, like the Walmart bag it came in.

It takes a few minutes, but now Jack is asleep. And the rain hits the rooftop and reminds Hic of all the thunderstorms he's flown through. Meeting with Father Time was worse than flying through a hurricane. This whole damn thing is worse than any storm. Hic won't cry, the day is too beautiful. He'll just hold his breath and slowly stroke Jack's spine. He can see all the ridges and valleys through the cotton.

Jack isn't awake. Jack can't feel a thing. Jack will never know.


	9. That Time Sheets Smelled Like Old Books

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, a little over a month since the last the update, not too terrible of me. My semester is almost over so I'll be able to pick up the pace once the holiday season arrives.
> 
> Anyways, here is the new chapter. This is more like an interlude that will ease us into the second half of the story, but important stuff still happens. A few notes: there are some lines from the play Dr. Faustus in this chapter. If you are not familiar with it, it's basically a play about a guy that sells his soul for knowledge and he has a familiar named Mephistopheles. Also, I threw together some bullshit word for "the act of going to garage sales", I call it "garage sale-ing" which looks better than "garage sailing", I guess.
> 
> And now some WARNINGS: blood, gore, severe illness, explicit suicide references, sexual references, drug use, profanity, death references, angst. Hic and Jack are super mopey, too, and pretty adorable. 
> 
> Enjoy...

Bed sheets smell remarkably like old books. It doesn't make much sense, they're out in the middle of a swamp surrounded by cattails and standing water. They're surrounded by blood and death and rotting flesh. But somehow, the cabin is full of sunlight and the sheets smell like books, the kind of books you buy at a garage sale. Jack used to go garage sale-ing on the weekends. He'd wake up early and slip into the gated communities. The guards were never there, the gates always seemed to be open. The roads were pitch black, the lawns were dark green. Everything was fake and perfect.

Jack looked for a lot of things: books, paintings, plastic flowers, and locked safes. Anything that caught his eye. Something magical would call out to him from beneath a pile of used clothes, something small and priceless. He always paid double for those things.

Some old guy sold him a magical snow globe. "It's only two dollars, son."

"Just take the four." Jack pushed the money into the old guy's hand. "You have no idea what it's worth."

Then he smiled and walked off. Being mysterious is so much fun.

He used to look for the signs in the middle of the road. Saturday mornings were soggy, they reminded him of a forgotten bowl of cereal. He would wake up early and wander the sidewalks of suburbia, a spell bag in his pocket, a sigil on his wrist. The Walkers had their monthly yard sale, the Cub Scouts sold books at the local church. Little families put little signs in the median and hoped that people would come. Jack always came.

Jack doesn't come anymore. He can't even fucking masturbate.

Oh, wow, very funny. There's a sex joke imbedded in a story about a garage sale. So edgy, so funny, let's give it five stars and two thumbs up. Jack's been reading nothing but sex jokes for the past few days. He lies on the bed and reads The Witch by Middleton. Then the words start to blur and he has to stop. The intervals are getting shorter, going from thirty minutes to fifteen. Now he can only read for ten minutes before the world starts to swim. He spends a lot of his time crying about this.

It's only been a week since he left the Magic Kingdom. Most of his time is spent curled up in bed, unable to move or think. Just breathe, just breathe.

Hiccup drifts in and out of existence. Sometimes he's in the cabin, quiet and calm and mechanical. He'll change Jack's sheets and wipe the blood off Jack's face. Wow, he does so much: makes food that Jack never eats, drips water into Jack's mouth, reads books to Jack in the middle of the night. Then he disappears into the day or into the night. It doesn't matter which. And then he'll return with a new book or a bottle of medicine. But he never says much. His teeth grit and his lips quiver, but he says nothing. After the first day, he stopped trying.

The other day he did say something, though.

He was tying up a black garbage bag. It was full of blood. "Your health's taken a nose dive, it's true. But I was thinking about it today, and this is just temporary. You'll feel better again and then we can find all the things on the list and cure you. Your body's going through extremes, that's all. You'll be okay."

Jack tried to roll over, but it felt like his stomach was trying to twist its way out of him. He spoke to the pillow instead. "Hic… I'm dying. I'll only get worse."

"But not yet. It's too soon. Trust me on this, you'll feel better, I promise."

"That means nothing to me."

Hic stared at the garbage bag, tears in his eyes. It would only take a few minutes to suffocate himself. "I know."

"No. You don't know, Hic."

That was a few days ago. Now Hic is a silent ghost that occasionally stammers out a sentence. Jack can never understand him. He just lies there, hating Hic, hating Father Time, hating himself. Pain grips his insides, he can feel the blood bubbling in his stomach. Nothing relieves it, that's the worst part. No matter how many times he pukes, the pain is there. Twinging, nasty, eating its way into his other organs. Sometimes his heart will beat fast and pound against his sternum. Sometimes his world is blood raw and he forgets what his name is.

Then the universe gives him a moment. Just a moment, just a moment. The pain retreats into his spine and he can move without screaming. What is he supposed to do when the pain goes away? He's so used to it, he's almost sad when it leaves. He's lying in bed, panting and looking at the ceiling. What to do… what to do…

He can read the stack of books by his bed. Hic stole them from a Barnes and Noble. He can listen to the radio or try to walk around the cabin. Walking is so fucking hard. Why is it so fucking hard? A week ago he could walk, his legs were weak but they were rooted. The ground accepted his feet and pushed him forward. Now the ground rejects him. What a fickle bitch, it pushes him away and into bed. Everything rejects him, the ground, the food, the blood running through his veins. But the sheets are nice, yeah the sheets love him. They wrap around him and hold him and say, "Hey, man, it's okay if you're dying. It's okay if you bleed and puke all over me. I'm here for you."

Shit, now he's personifying sheets. Stop it, stop it, stop it. Stop acting like a dying person, Jack.

"But I am dying." He says it into the pillow. Today he is lying on his side, looking at the potted plants. Sunlight cuts through the blinds, all thick and yellow. It looks sickly.

He says it again. "I am dying."

No one answers, except for the cat. It crawls out from under the bed. Jack hasn't talked to his familiar in a while. It's the sickness, isn't it? It's driving you away? The cat yawns and curls up by his feet. Not much, but it's enough.

Jack sniffs. His nose is red and tender, all the blood vessels are broken.

The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus is sitting on the rocking chair. Jack sees it and starts laughing.

"Who the fuck sells their soul for infinite knowledge? What an idiot, he was fine. He had everything he needed. At least I had a reason, at least I'm not an idiot." He presses his face against the pillow. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot. I should have asked for Mephistopheles instead of Hic, though. Idiot, idiot, idiot."

So he spends the next fifteen minutes reciting that stupid summoning spell. Faustus is so pretentious, he calls on God and Beelzebub, who does he think he is? Jack hates this play, but he can't stop. He laughs and whispers into the pillow. He's supposed to be saying Mephistopheles' name.

His voice is low and wet. "Veni, veni, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III. Veni, veni, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III."

 

Hic shakes his head and pulls his baseball cap lower. His horns tears through the edges, his wings are folded against his back. It's kind of impossible to pretend he's human. But he still likes to dress up, wear hats and jeans and flannel. If he stays in the shadows, no one will see him. When he walks down the Turnpike, people drive past, their knuckles white around their steering wheels. A mom grits her teeth and speeds by. Don't look, sweetie, don't look at the strange man on the side of the road. Yes, he's a man, a person, a human being. He has to be, right? Because devils aren't real. The Devil went down to Georgia, he didn't come this far south. Who has the time to drive this far? Who has the patience to drive past pro-life billboards and monster trucks packed with four-wheelers? No one, that's who. So no, that's not a devil, that's just a man. No one wants to see a demon, so no one will.

Hic just smiles and keeps walking.

He's sitting at an empty bus stop. There's no rain, just buzzing heat that sits on the sidewalk. It's one of those nasty days. An empty blue sky, a white hot sun. No one goes outside for fear of melting. The fucking cicadas won't shut up, the puddles are the temperature of warm blood. Everything is blinding and painful. Sweat rolls down his collarbone and sticks to his jeans. He stares at a pink, faded stop sign and thinks about death. It wouldn't be that hard.

Here it is, Hic's Guide to Sudden Death:

Impale yourself with the pink stop sign.

Hang yourself from the telephone pole.

Walk into one of those houses with the "No Trespassing" sign on the door and wait for Pa to pull out a shotgun.

Or you could just sit at this bus stop and die of boredom. Your choice.

Hic shakes his head again. There's a buzzing in his ear, someone is whispering into his skull. Is someone trying to summon him?

He runs his hands down his face. "Not now… Jack."

"You talking to the devil, boy?" A little old lady is sitting next to him, a cane propped between her legs. "You hear me? You talking to the devil, demon?"

Hic stands up, pressing himself against a Dunkin's Diamonds ad. "What? No. Leave me alone, lady. You never saw me."

She laughs and beats the sidewalk with her cane. "I'm pretty sure I saw you, sonny."

"Look, I'll leave, okay? Stop talking to me."

"Or what?"

His nails dig into his palm. The woman in the diamond ad is covered in sunlight and blood. "Or I-I'll hurt you. There's no one around, no one would know."

She's still laughing. "Relax, asshole. No need to hurt old ladies. It's me, dipshit."

"Astrid?"

"Who else?" All she has to do is shake her head and now Hic sees it. The braid, the blue eyes, the pointed fangs. The shark teeth rattle against her neck. "I can't believe you were gonna hurt me. Well, no, I can believe it. But still. I'm surprised at you, Hiccy."

"Shut up, Astrid." He slumps against the advertisement. "This isn't a joke, okay? Can't you say hello like a normal person?"

"Not really. I like scaring you." She pulls at her moth-eaten dress. "Like my get-up? Stole this shit from a GoodWill."

"It has a bunch of cats on it."

"I have eyes, idiot. I like the cats. That's why I bought it. But it's too damn hot for clothes." So she pulls it over her head and throws it on the ground. When she stretches across the bench, Hic can see all the designs in her lingerie. Bats and spiderwebs and roses.

He gives a hollow laugh. "You're gonna get arrested for indecent exposure."

"Indecent? This is indecent?" She furrows her eyebrows and snaps her bra straps. "This is a fucking blessing, okay? This isn't indecent. You're indecent, with your satanic horns and frowny face."

He frowns harder. "I'm not in the mood. If you were me, you'd be frowning, too. You'd have the biggest frown that ever frowned."

"'Cause your boyfriend's sick?"

"He's dying, Astrid. And he's not my boyfriend."

She winks slowly. "Okay, sure. But you wish he was, don't you?"

The heat is suddenly too much. Hic rubs his neck and stares at the pink stop sign. "No, that's ridiculous. It doesn't matter, anyways. He's dying…"

"Well you better hurry up and cure him." She's tracing patterns on her stomach, crosses and sigils and runes written in an ancient tongue. "If you don't fulfill your end of the contract, you won't get his soul when he dies."

"I don't even want it anymore."

"Really?"

"No. Yes. I don't know, it doesn't matter." He keeps staring at the stop sign. It's so old and faded, no one cares about it anymore. Look at it, covered in bird shit and graffiti. Pathetic. The longer he stares it, the more he wants to cry. He wants to cry all the time now, when Jack moans in his sleep… when Jack screams in pain…

"Are you okay, Hic?" Astrid's on her feet, standing next to him with her toes curled into the dirt. Weeds grow in between the sidewalk. "Hic? Your face is all red and fucked up. Are you crying?"

"No? I'm fine. It's fine. I have to go. Where are my groceries?" The Winn Dixie bags are heavy, full of aspirin and Pepto-Bismol. Humans take medication, right? Maybe he should have stolen a bottle of oxycodone.

Astrid grabs his sleeve. She's pulling at a string on her underwear. "Stop. I have better things to do, but this is stupid. Sit down, take a nap or something. I'll buy you things that are actually useful, okay?"

"This stuff is useful! Look at it!" He shakes the bags in her face. "Humans like drugs. I've got pills and liquid stuff and cough drops."

"No, that's not useful, it's useless. Useless shit."

He rolls his eyes and gnashes his teeth. "I don't know how to do this, this isn't my specialty! I should be flying all over the world, making maps and discovering new things! I should be making things, Astrid, not sitting here taking care of some human! I shouldn't be falling in love with another stupid human!"

Silence lies thick and heavy on the sidewalk, like butter. A Greyhound bus rattles by, a wave of muddy water laps at Astrid's heels. She doesn't care. She puts the cat dress on and grabs Hic's face.

"Look at me. Sit down. Just sit down and let me help you. Okay?"

He nods and drops the grocery bags. It's an explosion of white pills and pink liquid, there it goes, running into the street. Hic sits on the bench and stares at the ground, trying not to cry. But it doesn't stop anything, he cries and bites at his claws and picks at his scales. His arms are covered in scabs.

Astrid walks to the nearest Winn Dixie. Her footsteps are pink and her fingernails are red. It's impossible to wash the blood off her hands, the Haunted Mansion was a massacre. Of course the Father got away, he always does. He took his little gray boys and slipped out the back door. Straight into the darkness, straight into the crowds of early Disney-goers. When the sun rose, everything was silent, and Astrid was in line for Space Mountain. Yeah, she needed a distraction, some kind of adrenaline. Twenty people screaming in the dark can be fun.

 

One person screaming in the dark is definitely not fun. The person is Jack and the dark is artificial. Stupid lightbulb, it just had to go out. He's curled up on the bathroom floor biting his nails and picking the scabs on his arms. A burnt out lightbulb swings overhead, a broken shower head drips over and over and over again. The toilet seat is covered in bloody handprints. There's something about this, the red porcelain and the rotted wood and the smell of musk and plant life, it's almost beautiful… wait, no, shut the fuck up. Don't romanticize this. This is terrible. This is gross and uncomfortable and stagnant. This is nothing but days in bed, days without showering. This is Hell and Jack wants to die.

Oh, you will. Don't worry, Jack, you will.

 

"Here. Useful shit." Astrid puts the plastic bags on the bench. Her dress is off again and draped around her neck.

"You're half-naked again…"

"It's too hot. No matter what I wear, the humidity seeps into my clothes. Like a sponge. Aren't you sweating to death?"

Hic looks sideways at her. His eyes are red. "I'm from Hell, literally from Hell."

Her laugh bounces off the diamond ad. "Oh yeah, so I guess you're used to heat. But here's all your stuff, you can thank me later. Go home, help your boyfriend feel better, and then save his life. Not too hard, right?"

"Sure." He rubs his eyes and picks up the bags. "I'll go. Jack's waiting for me."

"Of course he is, he needs you." She tries to smile when she says it, but it looks all wrong.

Now Hic is laughing. "Of course he does. Sure. I'll see ya around, Astrid, thanks for, uh, doing all this."

"You owe me, Hiccup."

"I know." And he walks into the shadow of the bus stop and disappears.

Astrid is left standing in her underwear, half in sunlight and half in darkness. Both halves are hotter than Hell, so much hotter than Hell. Astrid would know, she's been there a few times. At least Hell is constant, the heat is always dry and always there. Here, the heat plays tricks on you. It gives you a shadow or a light breeze and makes you think your suffering is over. But then the humidity drowns you and the mosquitoes bite at your skin. Astrid takes a deep breath. This place is much worse than Hell, worse than any circle she's been to.

 

Jack must be in circle eight by now, or nine or ten or a hundred. Hic finds him lying in the hundredth circle, breathing hard and wiping blood off his nose. For once, he doesn't want to say anything, he just picks Jack up and carries him to bed. Gods, he's so light, nothing but bird bones and paper skin. If Hic squeezed hard enough…

He tucks the sheets beneath the mattress. Everything feels soggy. Maybe it's just Hic's imagination. Pillows are waterlogged, blankets are dripping, plants are bending and curling and doing other things.

Jack sits against the wall. "You didn't have to do that. I was getting up."

"You were lying face down on the floor."

"I was resting. I was fine."

"Yeah, okay." Hic rifles through the plastic bags. "I, uh, got you some stuff. Some acetaminophen, some rifaximin? Doxepin? A liter of ginger ale, some meds for blood clotting I think, a first aid kit, and… is this a bag of weed?"

Jack dabs at his nose with a Kleenex. The blood is brown and crusted. "Where the fuck did you go shopping?"

"I didn't! I asked somebody else to do it for me. They went to Winn Dixie and brought all this stuff back for me, for you. They said it was all useful." He empties the bags onto the floor. Wow, look at all this shit, drugs and ginger ale, everything you need for a good time. Hic rolls his eyes. Stupid Astrid. For some reason, he doesn't want to tell Jack about seeing her. Maybe he doesn't believe it was really her, maybe he's just selfish.

Jack's laugh is barely there, but it's still a laugh. "That's weird. Whoever they were, I don't think they went to Winn Dixie. And weed seems pretty useful to me. I'd like some escapism."

"Okay. Whatever you want."

So Hic rolls some honey blunts and they sit on the bed, smoking and drinking ginger ale while rain pounds the roof. It's another afternoon storm, the kind that makes the earth sticky. Jack's fingers are sticky, too. He leans against the pillow and watches the smoke curl beneath the ceiling. Sweet taste on his tongue, sweet feeling in his limbs. For some reason, he's stroking Hic's wings. He can't help it, they're so soft and leathery. They remind him of the animal skin rug he used to fuck his ex on. Which ex, though? The sorcerer with the golden eyes? The artist with the long, blonde hair? The rainbow witch or the patron with the spinning tattoos? They were all so lovely, warm and cold, soft and hard. But that doesn't matter, not really. What matters is the rug and the way it smelled after sex. Hot and alive. Like Hic's wings. Jack rolls into them and buries his face in the leather.

Hic flinches. "Ow, the hell are you doing?"

"Cuddling."

"Stop it, you're mad at me." He tries to push Jack off. "You're high, get off."

"No. I can hate you and still cuddle with you. Besides, I'm fucking tired. I don't have the energy to push you away right now." The wings feel softer than ever. Jack is simply sinking. "I've been thinking, and there's no point to this."

Hic adjusts his jeans, they're riding up his ass. "To what?"

"To not talking to you. I'm sick all the time and being an asshole doesn't make me feel better." He sits up and coughs into his palm. It's all black and sticky. "See this shit? I'm gonna die soon and there's just no point. So understand that I'm still mad at you, I'm still angry, but I can't not talk to you anymore. Okay?"

"Jack… I, uh—"

"Hold on a sec, I'm gonna puke." Jack makes it to the bathroom in time. He sticks his hand out the door and waves to Hic. "You got any toothpaste in those bags?"

"Uh, yeah, I do actually." There's a tube of Colgate hidden beneath a bag of Fritos.

Jack brushes his teeth and rolls back into bed. He keeps rolling, over scratchy sheets and blankets, straight into Hic's warm body.

His voice is soft. "Are you okay, Jack?"

"No, but I'm feeling better than usual."

Hic sighs and adjusts his jeans again. They're so tight. "You tried to summon me earlier. Why?"

Jack shrugs. His shoulders brush against the leathery wings. "I don't know."

"Maybe you wanted to see me? Maybe?"

"I was reciting lines from Dr. Faustus, okay?" There's a burning in Jack's stomach, but it's not the blood or the disease. "But yeah, I guess I wanted to see you."

"Oh."

"Yep…"

There they are, lying in bed, their blunts slowly burning out. Hic adjusts his jeans and Jack bites his lip. The cabin smells like spearmint. Rain hits the roof, music blares from the radio. It's a mix of Johnny Cash and Stevie Nicks. Something's coming back, seeping into his body. He feels it, the syringe of magic slipping into his veins. Water droplets hang suspended in the air, frozen for a moment. Because this is only a moment, a moment of mercy. His familiar is sitting on the rocking chair, staring at him with its head cocked. Jack takes a deep breath and rolls over again. There's no more room, just miles and miles of flesh. Warm demon flesh. He's pressed against it, the scales and scabs and skin. Shoulder to shoulder, waist to waist, thigh to thigh. They're close, so fucking close. And this might be his only chance, the universe is a bitch and it's coming for him.

The universe is a bitch, Hiccup is an asshole, and Jack is a dying piece of shit. His fingers are cold and moving across the blankets.

Hic grabs his hand. "Stop. It's okay."

"No, I want to do this."

"Do what, exactly?"

"I don't know… something like… oh, fuck it." He throws logic out the window and kisses Hic on the mouth.

It's a silent, sticky second that lasts several days. Lips are hard and cracked, muscles are tense with sudden stress. Hic grabs at his jaw and pulls him close. Like he's holding Jack together. And Jack curls against the bloody scabs and tries not to cry. It doesn't hurt, it's just… what he's been waiting for. When they pull away, the radio is nothing but static. Jack blinks and Hic is beside him, hot and confused. They're holding their breath in the heat of the cabin, afraid to think or move. Their bodies are full of so many things. There's blood, black and red, there's magic and hellfire and years of pain. Jack is thick like honey and full of experiences that don't seem real. He fucked a fairy once, he danced for the Crips and the Bloods on New Year's Eve, he spent the night in an orange grove, and spent a weekend chasing after a fifteen-foot alligator. All the memories are pushed together, crowded inside his skinny little body. Hic is the opposite, so spacious and full of heat. He's flown over the Arctic and into the Northern Lights, he's watched planes fight in the sky and stopped their bombs from falling. He's lived too many lives. They all float to the surface of his skin.

Hic's sweating, body rigid against the mattress. Jack's staring, licking his lips over and over again. They look at each other for a while. Maybe they're watching each other's eyes or waiting for someone to laugh. No one does. They're nothing but static, just like the radio, and when they breathe the air stirs with electricity. Jack's eyes glow for half a second.

Look at them, don't they remind you of the Northern Lights?

Hic looks at the ceiling. "I'm such an idiot."

"I know."

"So are you, witchy."

"I know."

"I just, I wanted to do that for so long." He sniffs and rubs at his eyes. "I hate myself for that, I really do. But it's not my fault, it was never supposed to be this way, you were never—"

"Supposed to be more than a contract? I know, I know." Jack pokes at his scabs and freckles, there are hundreds of them. "Just shut up about it, okay? I don't care anymore. I just want to get better, or maybe I don't. Whatever. But I know I want to find what's on that list. I don't want to lie here every day, doing nothing."

Hic nods. The tears are silent and sliding down his temples. "We'll start tomorrow. I, uh, I put the list somewhere. I'll find it."

"I know."

They stare at the ceiling for the next hour, listening to the rain beat the roof. There's a lot going on. There's wind and rain and palm trees getting struck by lightning. There's hand holding beneath the sheets. It's only an hour, but Jack can deal with that. He falls asleep on Hic's shoulder. When he wakes up, the pain will be back.


	10. That Time An Hour Felt Like A Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that, an early update. I'm updating because today marks the one year anniversary of this fic. Technically, I wrote it last October, but it was officially posted to AO3 on December 7, 2014, so yeah, it's been a year. 
> 
> So here is an update just for the occasion. It's rather short, but it has some key plot points and important conversations. There's some actual fluff (kind of?) in this chapter, and more hijack-ness, so enjoy. Just to clarify, when I mention Prospero and Ariel, those are characters from Shakespeare's, The Tempest. Friedrich Nietzsche is a philosopher who said the whole thing about the abyss looking back at you, blah, blah, blah. Also, the phrase "the devil is beating his wife" is an old southern saying for when it's raining when the sun's out (makes no sense, but it's a saying). All of the items on Father Time's list will make sense as the story continues, next chapter is going to be long and full of action. Just in case anyone is confused.
> 
> Some WARNINGS: nsfw stuff, blood, gore, abuse mention, severe illness (Jack is slowly getting worse, so yeah), death mention, language, and general angst.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone that has stuck with this fic, everyone that has been here since the beginning, and everyone who has just started reading. It is because of you that this fic has grown as much as it has. You all inspire me to keep writing. Your comments are beautiful, I don't even know how to respond to most of them, but just know that I read and cherish all of them. Thanks for all the support, this fic is far from over! :) 
> 
> Enjoy...

An hour feels remarkably like a year. A year feels like a second. A second feels like a day. When you're running from death, time is all fucked up. Today Jack is dying, tomorrow he is alive and well. They say time becomes sporadic when the end of your life is near, "they" being a shadowy group of figures that sit in the background and run the world. They're probably the Illuminati or a group of lizard aliens or a collection of Donald Trump clones. Who cares, right? Jack is busy trying to stay alive.

The pain is always there. Sometimes it crouches in his spine, sometimes it walks across his bones, sometimes it digs into his stomach. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. This, that, shit, shat, who gives a flying a fuck? He tries to forget it exists.

He reads.

Classics, contemporaries, forgotten poets, they're piled up beside his bed. Hic reads for Ariel and Jack reads for Prospero. Then they switch and Jack pretends to be an airy spirit. There's an abandoned BORDERS at the edge of town, Hic slips in at night and buys books from the witches that live there. One evening, Jack wants to go.

He sits in the rocking chair, a bowl of blood in his lap. The nosebleeds just don't stop. "I want to see them… I haven't visited in a while."

Hic shakes his head. "No. Today isn't your best day."

"The hell does that mean? I'm fine."

"You said you felt dizzy."

Jack snorts and rubs his nose. "Okay, whatever, but I'm fine now. At this moment in time, I'm fine. Let's go."

Hic rolls his eyes and starts cleaning the dishes. The plates are organized by size and color. "No, Jack. I'm not taking you, just tell me what books you want."

"Fuck you. I'm dying, take me to BORDERS."

"Fine. It's your funeral."

"You bet it is."

So they go to BORDERS in the middle of the night and talk to the witches with dust in their hair. Long hair, short hair, dreadlocks, and box braids. Black fingernails flip pages and pick through the bodies of dead birds. Jack watches them work, blood dripping from his nose. One of the witches holds his face.

"Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry. We didn't know you were dying."

He shrugs. "I didn't want to bother anybody."

He walks through the empty store, Hic's tail wrapped around his waist. The walls are grey and peeling. When Hic takes a breath, he smells mosquito repellent and water damage. Jack says a total of thirty-three words before the smells make him nauseous. They walk and whisper and look at books. Look, there's a collection of curses. They're all written in crimson ink that was made over a hundred years ago. Over there, on the bottom shelf, there's a book of green magic. Hic pulls a dried chrysanthemum out of its pages. Jack brings it to life for a few seconds before his fingers go numb. It's okay, Jack, it's okay…

"You've got blood on your mouth. Hold still." Hic kisses him against the bookshelf, claws digging into the rotten wood. It's soft and falling apart in his hands.

They kiss until they have to pull away, gasping and sweating in the musty dark. Desperate tension builds between their fingertips. They're building barriers, the kind that make it hard to touch. And they move around each other, invading breathing space and reaching for jaws and collarbones. Why are they so afraid of contact? Jack's shins are full of splints. He can feel the blood pooling in his feet. He shakes his head.

"I… I can't right now. I need to sit down or something…"

"Okay."

Hic picks him up and sets him on a metal bookshelf. The sound echoes across the store. Careful, this place is sinking into the swamp. But Hic can't help it, his dick is hard against his jeans. Sweat rolls down his bare spine. The vertebrae look twisted, almost primal, like a tyrannosaurus on display. His bones are aching to embrace and crush and rub and grind. He holds Jack and kisses his neck.

"H-Hic, fuck, Hic…"

"It's okay. Relax." He puts a hand on Jack's chest. Beneath one layer of flannel and seven layers of flesh, his heart is beating. Pretend you're holding that heart, demon. "It's okay… I'm here."

Jack nods and grabs his hand. "Make me forget the pain. Do that for me."

"Mhmm." He sucks on Jack's collarbone and rubs his shins with both hands. Then he's rubbing his knees, his thighs. Climbing higher until he's rubbing Jack's dick through his jeans.

Jack bites his lip. Fuck, fuck, there's not enough blood, is there? He's too sick for sex, too fucked up to get it up. Hic is hard and hot and beautiful. Jack is soft and cold and ugly. Yeah, he's ugly, he has to be. That's what it does to you, makes you skinny and hard to hug. But Hic hugs him anyways and kisses his jaw.

"You're beautiful, Jack… beautiful." He whispers it over and over again.

They keep kissing, Jack starts crying, and the store sinks deeper into the swamp.

 

The days slip by. Rain comes in the middle of the afternoon and old Southern women say, "Oh, would you look at that. The Devil must be beating his wife". Half the sky is blacked out and covered in lightning, the other half is blue and white. After thunderstorms, the earth is waterlogged. Jack walks over the weeds and squishes mud between his toes. Physicality feels good. It's nice to remember that you're still alive, you can still get dirt on your hands and taste blood that isn't yours. Some nights, Jack dreams of the deer that run in between the cypress trees. Their antlers are raw velvet. Hic goes hunting and brings back headless gators. He stands in the middle of empty parking lots and screams at nothing.

Astrid meets him every so often. They sit at the bus stop and watch the Greyhounds speed by. She's always wearing something different. One Monday morning when the fog is rolling over the anti-abortion billboards: a faux shearling coat, a pair of ripped shorts, some combat boots. She smiles at Hic and licks the blood off her teeth. She likes her chicken wings raw. One sticky Tuesday afternoon: a sequins dress and bare feet. She was out all night trying to take a CEO's soul. Then it's Wednesday and she's in a pleather skirt that doesn't cover her ass cheeks. And then it's Saturday and she's wearing a suede shirtdress. Hic doesn't ask wear she gets all her clothes. He doesn't care. He just wants to talk about Jack and buy discount weed.

He asks if she wants to visit Jack.

"No, I don't want to see him. Not yet."

"Why?"

"None of your business, asshole. I just don't want to."

He sighs and rubs eyes. "But he really thinks you're his friend."

"I am." She almost sounds angry. "Of course I'm his fucking friend. It's just… I can't, not now. Tell him I'll send him a get-well-soon card."

"You have no soul."

When she shrugs, the shark teeth clatter together. "Your point is?"

"Nothing, I guess. Fine I'll tell him." Hic walks out into the sunshine and leaves Astrid at the bus stop.

Jack isn't mad, he understands something that Hic doesn't.

"It's fine, I get it. She can visit me later." There's blood crusted under his fingernails. He looks at the skin flaking off his palms. "Yeah, later."

 

More days slip by. Everything smells sweet and rotten. Oranges ripen and fall into the grass, easy food for the ants that build multi-level mansions.

Hic looks for that stupid list and throws utensils across the cabin. Jack is asleep whenever he does this, curled up in the white sheets, dreaming about faceless deer. Sometimes Hic lies beside him in the dark. When it's quiet and the radio is full of white noise. He hugs Jack and holds his shaking hands. Shit, he wants to touch him so bad, kiss his thighs, maybe even go inside his body. Someday they'll have sex in this cabin. Right? Right.

Kissing is limited to ten minute intervals. Any longer and Jack risks a black out. When Hic is pretending to sleep, he masturbates in the bathroom. Think about green eyes and freckles and muscles that slide beneath skin. He tries, he really tries, but nothing happens. The pain cuts through his fantasy and puts him on the floor. Hic finds him a few minutes later, writhing and whining about the cramps. Days go by and Hic looks for the crumpled piece of paper. They don't have time to go to BORDERS. Hic finds the list wadded up in the garbage can, yellowed and covered in coffee grinds. He really needs to break his coffee addiction, obsession, whatever the hell it is. They need to get started.

The list is short and boring. Father Time's handwriting reminds Jack of those high schoolers that try too hard. You know the ones, the ones that swear that this is "just how they write normally", the ones that correct the teacher and talk like they swallowed a thesaurus. Jack wanted to stab those kids in ninth grade, gods were they annoying. He tries not to roll his eyes when Hic reads the list.

"Dear Fuckup—Wow, what an asshole. Maybe I should call him Fucker Time. Anyways—Dear Fuckup, do what I say and your boyfriend will live. Then you can take his tasty little soul. You need to find seven things. Seven seemingly insignificant things that you would never give the time of day. Find them, bring them to me, and I will fix your boyfriend. But you better hurry, his time is almost up…" Hic rolls his eyes. "This guy is just… so annoying. I want to strangle him, maybe tear his head off."

"Yeah, you do that. You're a total badass." Jack tries to snatch the list away and misses by several inches. His depth perception is a little skewed. "Read the rest. I want to know what's gonna save my life."

"Okay, chill. Here you go." He clears his throat and leans forward in the rocking chair. The cat jumps into his lap. "One, a pinecone from Pine Castle, the boy in the cemetery should help you out. Two, a left sock from a GoodWill outlet. It has to be a black sock, a black Adidas sock. Three, a Punisher action figure from the Rag Tagg store. Four, a painting from a gallery owned by a real estate agent power couple. Five, A strand of Cloud Serpas' hair. You can find him in the Marlins Stadium. Six, a bigfoot call toy. And seven, the heart… of a demon? What the hell is this?"

"Lemme see." Jack tries to snatch the list away and succeeds. "I don't understand this, what is all this crap? Who's Cloud Serpas? A sock, a heart? What is this shit?"

"I don't know!" Hic throws his hands up. Hissing, the cat runs into a corner. "This better be some kind of joke. I can't believe him, 'the heart of a demon', what is that? He just wants this to be a big cliché and make me sacrifice myself. He wants this to be some big production that ends Romeo and Juliet style."

Jack wants to laugh. The list is crumpled in his fist. "Well that's not happening. No need to speed up the process. I'll die soon enough."

"Not if we find all this stuff. I'll rip his heart out of his chest and eat it in front of him if I have to."

Of course you will, you big, strong demon. All Jack can do is nod as he stumbles to the bathroom. He thinks about hearts as he gags over the toilet bowl, heavy red hearts the color of honey and tabasco sauce. Why did he put that crap on his scrambled eggs? He can't tell what's blood and what's sauce, it all looks the same.

The only things he can keep down are dried chili peppers and mason jars full of sweet tea. Hic makes him a glass every two hours. He sets it next to the radio.

"Uh, you need any help in there?"

"N-No, I'm good." Jack kicks the door shut. "Just get rid of all the condiments. All of them, even the ketchup."

"Okay." Hic hides a few packets of Heinz before throwing out the rest. Mosquitoes swarm the garbage bags and pretend the ketchup tastes like blood. But it never will.

 

The next few hours are spent re-reading the list. Hic tears it up and tacks each item to the wall. He's got the pushpins in his mouth, clenched between his teeth as he thinks. Then they build a map, one of those elaborate person of interest maps you see on TV. They've got string and newspaper clippings, pictures and excerpts from Wikipedia articles.

Jack watches him cut out a map of Florida. "Don't know what I was expecting, but this isn't as cool as I thought it'd be."

"Just wait. Shut up and wait, okay? It's going to look awesome."

"Whatever."

It takes another hour to complete. Hic chews on the pushpins and swallows a few of them whole. He backs away from the wall. Slowly. "Done. Check it out. Nice, right?"

Yeah, it does look pretty cool. Jack says nothing.

"Okay, well screw you then. I think it looks all right. Now we can start figuring shit out."

"Yeah…" He's not really paying attention, he's staring at Hic's body. It does so many things all at once. Stomach muscles tighten when he gets his excited, just as his voice rises and blood rushes to his face. His tail twitches as he points at the map. Left, right, left. The wings open and close, the claws scratch against the wood. Everything is heated, the air buzzes around him. His skin is screaming for friction.

And that's when Jack feels his boxers tighten. There it is, there it is, and it's gone. Two whole seconds of arousal. Groaning, Jack lies on the bed. He's alchemizing his lust into a backache that settles in his spine. Fuck, he's being punished for committing a deadly sin.

"Jack? Hey, you okay?"

He shakes his head. "Keep talking. I'll just lie here and think about stuff I'll never be able to do to you."

Hic cocks his head. Gods, he looks like a cat. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing, okay!"

"It's obviously something. Where does it hurt?"

Jack covers his face. This is not happening, this is not happening. "Forget I said anything. I'm fine, you're fine. Keep talking about Adidas socks and demon hearts."

"You're being weird. Flip over and I'll massage your back. I know it hurts." He turns Jack over and straddles him. Then he's elbow deep in white skin and spastic muscles. The pinpricks on his fingers are oozing, but he doesn't care. His bones are telling him to grip and rub, hold and be held.

Jack buries his face in the sheets. It feels… nice. It should be more than that. He should be hard and screaming, begging Hic to fuck him. He lets the claws dig into his back, wishing they could do more. He whispers it into the mattress. "I want to feel sexy again."

Hic's lips are against his ear. "You are sexy, Jack. I've never seen anyone hotter."

 

They decide to look for the—wait, no, it doesn't matter. Who cares what they look for first? Time is fake, life is a dream, and we are probably all alone in the universe. The order in which they find the items is irrelevant. Father Time doesn't care how or when they find the Adidas sock tucked into the plastic bin. He watches the time slip away, waits for Jack's soul to appear on his desk. Then he'll smash it with a hammer and move on to the next. So it doesn't really matter when Jack and Hic go looking for the pinecone or the sock or the heart.

But that's a pretentious viewpoint, one to be avoided. There are no Friedrich Nietzsche's here, just a horny demon and dying warlock. They stare into the abyss and the abyss says, "Fuck off, weirdoes".

Time matters. Jack tells himself that before he sleeps. Time matters, life matters, and we are never alone. A few months ago, he was lying half-conscious in a bed, staring at a broken fan and listening to the neighbors fight about cordon bleu. Now he is lying half-conscious in a bed, holding someone's hand and listening to their heartbeat. No fighting, nothing but silence. Still dying, but somehow happy for the first time in months.

The Adidas sock does matter. They decide to look for it first.

"We'll alternate." Hic sticks more pins into the wall. "An easy one, a hard one. Easy, hard, easy, hard. The sock seems like a simple place to start. And we won't save the heart for last, that's stupid. We'll grab the pinecone last."

Jack grins and takes a sip of sweet tea. "Sounds anti-climactic."

"I'm not looking for climactic. I want this to be efficient."

"Oh yeah, we'll be the most efficient sock finders this world has ever seen." He looks at the pills in his hands, round and small and white. Oxycodone should keep the pain away for a few hours. Astrid swiped some Percocet for him the other day. This is her way of caring. She stands at the bus stop and sends him a smile. Thanks, Astrid, thanks for that bloody smile.

He washes the pills down with sweet tea and honey. Whenever his mind is numb, the magic starts coming back. Slowly, softly. After a few hours, he'll be swimming in sigils and spells. His book is tucked beneath the mattress, filled with ancient languages and made-up ones. Once he's cured, he'll get them published. Yeah, he'll bind them and bring them to the Everglades coven and be famous. He'll open his own club and dance for VIP's. They'll love him again, they'll call him stripper and scholar. And he'll go home to Hic every night. Listen, baby, let me tell you about my day…

"You want to tell me about your day?"

"Huh?" Jack rubs his eyes. He's standing in the middle of a parking lot, Hic's arms around his waist. "We're in a parking lot. Okay. Forget whatever I said, I was—"

"Thinking in words?"

Jack thinks about his apartment, the scuffed tile and the abused door. It's probably boarded up now, covered in Crips graffiti. Little Sophie probably knocks on his door and calls out his name. "Hey, fucking weirdo! Hey, open the door!" Silly Sophie, the fucking weirdo is never coming back.

He smiles for a second, then looks up at Hic. "That isn't cute. It's cheesy. Now where are we?"

"I'm surprised the shadow jumping didn't bother you this time. You usually throw up all over my shoes… but yeah, this is a GoodWill outlet. I picked a random one. I guess we should just start looking."

"Sounds good." Jack's ready to go. Percocet leaks into his veins, paints over his pain with a wide brush. Good, bury that shit deep in his bones. "I've got at least a few pain free hours, so let's go."

They walk across the empty parking lot, a new moon overhead. Jack whispers to the lock and the doors fly open. The warehouse is endless. Row after row of plastic bins overflowing with clothes. Baby bibs are piled on top of underwear are piled on top of overalls are piled on top of… there's too much. Shoes shoved into racks and hats stacked on top of each other. All of the wide tables look like surgical stations. There you pick apart the clothes, dissect the piles, and throw away the cotton innards. Blue gloves are folded neatly by the registers. You never know what you're gonna get, sticking your hand into a mound of unwanted things. Hic and Jack look at each other and nod. They put on their plastic gloves and get to work.


	11. That Time Plastic Gloves Smelled Like Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three and half months... it's basically been three and a half months since I updated this trash. I have no excuse except school crap and writer's block. But here we are, a decent sized update that will be followed by a much faster update, I assure you. Like always, here are some WARNINGS: blood, gore, profanity, chronic/terminal illness, references to death, stalker reference, sexual references, mild sexy times, and lots of angst and Jack feeling inadequate. But there is some cute stuff, and something about a shadow monster... but it's nothing too weird.
> 
> Okay, enjoy Jack and Hic's search for a sock...

Plastic gloves smell remarkably like death. That sounds dramatic, but it's true; true for Jack, at least. When he looks at them he sees surgeon hands and scalpels and skull bones. Okay, so surgeons use latex or rubber or whatever, but who cares? It's Jack's interpretation that counts. He sees gloves and thinks of hospitals with shitty lightning, patients that die quietly in the corner. He hates those gloves, how they feel against your skin. You can never get rid of the anti-septic smell that seeps into every pore. You can never ignore the death that has stained gloves and hands and fingernails. How many people have died beneath those gloves? How many? Jack closes his eyes and sees blue gloves turned purple. So much blood, so much fucking blood.

Of course, it's all in his head. There is no blood. There are no blue latex gloves hovering over his naked body. He's not lying in a hospital, waiting for a nurse that will never come. He's standing in a GoodWill, digging through piles of clothes. Shirts that have been washed a thousand times, pilled sweaters, faded flannels that are from the 90's. He finds a tacky Christmas sweater in the bottom of a plastic barrel.

"Hic… Hic, look at this. It's got a giant ass reindeer on it."

"I know. I see it." Hic's straddling a table, sorting tube socks. "Throw it here. I want to try it on."

"You're gonna look stupid."

"That's the plan." He cuts slits in the back and pulls it over his head. "Sexy, right?"

"Oh yeah, real sexy." It's supposed to be a joke, but look at those arms and the sweat shining on his skin. The thighs holding tight to the table, all taut and trimmed. Jack licks his lips. "You know, I could look past the ugly reindeer. Yeah… maybe I want to rip it off you, slam you against that table and, uh, fuck you hard."

Hic raises his eyebrows. "Gods, Jack. You really want to do this now? We're working. But if you want to, I mean, I wouldn't object to—"

"No, I don't want to fuck in a GoodWill." Or maybe he does. But they're working and the Percocet is making him act stupid. His cheeks are hot. "Ignore me, okay? I'm high off my ass, I don't know what I'm saying."

"Kind of hard to ignore that, but whatever. I'll pretend you didn't say anything." He's smiling at the pile of tube socks. "But just for the record, you wouldn't be fucking me, I'd be fucking you. You're like a chicken bone, witchy. You couldn't slam me against anything."

"I… uh…" Jack can't finish his sentence.

They go back to searching.

By the end of the night, they've sorted hundreds of socks. They sort them by brand and color. It has to be a black Adidas sock, a left black Adidas sock. Why is it so hard to find? Most of them are dingy and white, over-washed and smelling like fabric softener. The smell makes Jack nauseous. Percocet only lasts so long, the pit in his stomach started growing hours ago. Pain comes and slaps the numbness away. He pauses every so often, gripping the sides of the table and breathing hard. Breathing hard, trying to ignore the burning in his body, the burning that rises higher and higher until he's clutching at his ribcage with both hands. It's so much worse, going from numbness to this. Sweat makes his palms sticky and wet. When he breathes, his chest moves, and when his chest moves, his stomach rolls. He can feel it. All that blood that's been piling up, thick and hard like dried glue. He can taste it. The blood and bile in the back of his throat. It tastes like bloody lemonade. Gods, this is worse than usual… maybe the Percocet was a bad idea, maybe he's finally dying, maybe he needs to puke or cough or shit blood…

"Jack, just relax. I've got you." Hic's pressed up against him, holding his hands and kissing the back of his neck. "Geez, you're all clammy and cold. What hurts?"

"Everything…"

"You're going to have to be more specific."

Jack wants to laugh, he really wants to. "I-It's fine, nothing new. Just my intestines trying to rip themselves from my body." He grits his teeth. "Okay, ow, ow. Fucking shit, that hurts."

"Let me help." Hic lifts him onto the table. He's lying in a pile of No Nonsense socks, staring up at the ceiling that never seems to end. Hic's hands are on his stomach, moving in slow circles. "See, witchy, I can help. That feels better, right?"

"I, uh, I guess." Jack swallows and tries to close his eyes. But the fluorescents are too bright, the air is too cold. The A/C hums in the background, low and ugly in the back of his brain. This place won't let him sleep, so he stares at the ancient fans covered in cobwebs and the cracked lights that flicker on and off. He feels Hic's claws brush his skin, press into his abdominal wall for a fraction of a second. Then he holds his breath and tries to think about other things. The taste of Hic's mouth, the heat of his breath, the way he sees both heaven and hell when Hic kisses him on the back of his neck. What is it like, kissing a demon? It's Holy Communion on Maundy Thursday, it's saliva turning to blood in your mouth. Jack swallows hard. He wants to pull Hic down and suck on his lips. Make them swollen. But the place is cold and the pain is sharp. Look at the ceiling fans, wait for something to happen.

 

Nothing happens. Not really. Jack feels the blood curdling in his stomach, he feels Hic's claws smoothing out the aches in his skin. He feels the shadow of a backache creeping down his spine, he feels knots in his shoulders and bag under his eyes. Everything is overstuffed and empty at the same time. He's a mason jar filled with too many ice cubes, a Walmart mattress filled with too much air. But ice cubes melt and air is weightless. He shouldn't feel like a mosquito about to pop.

There's nothing but blood inside him now, sometimes he wonders if he has any organs left. Hic smiled when he said this. "That's a good thing, right, witchy? You can funnel all that blood into an erection."

Jack threw a copy of Macbeth at his face. Then he laughed and started to cry and Hic held him and apologized a thousand times. It makes sense, though, why can't he feel a little hot? His temperature is already climbing. Nights are spent sweating and itching because his skin is too warm, his skin is too tight. Hic hears him crying in frustration.

One sticky afternoon, he said, "Why can't I die in peace?"

Hic rolled his eyes. "You're not going to die in anything. You're not dying, okay? I'll make sure you get better." He went back to washing the dishes. Cast iron plates were organized by size, mason jars were hanging from a rack over the stove. The water came out hot, turning his hands red and white. Jack listened to the faucet and said nothing else.

What else was there to say?

Hic makes promises all the time, promises that he can't keep. I'll save you, you won't die, you'll feel better in a few months, I promise. He smiles and runs his claws through Jack's thinning hair. He licks his lips and whispers promises in Jack's ear. Where do oath breakers go? The eight circle, maybe the sixth? Maybe they're frozen up to their eyes in the icy lake of Hell or maybe they're rolling around in the mud and shit of the Malebolge. Hic doesn't deserve that… but he needs to be careful. His words are heard the world over. Jack swallows his promises one by one, they taste like the bruised part of a nectarine.

Jack swallows hard and stares at the ceiling fans. Hic keeps rubbing his stomach, his chest, his sides. Claws graze goosebumps and scars and benign moles. There are tender kisses on his ribcage, wet lips on his sternum. He can feel Hic's tongue on his hipbone. The skin is paper thin there, white and brittle and alive with blue veins. More licking, more rubbing, more kissing. Hic licks his lungs and pants against his lower intestine. Movements are slow. Hic's wings open and shut, open and shut. And then they lie flat against his back and his fingers start to tremble. His eyes are wet, so are his teeth. He looks at Jack the way Nietzsche looks at the Abyss.

But fuck Nietzsche, right? No one liked him, he died bitter and alone. And fuck the Abyss, too. It shouldn't even be capitalized, only pretentious assholes take that whole abyss quote seriously. Hic can be pretty pretentious, though, so he'll roll with it. He'll roll onto the table and look down at Jack, his dying witch. Look at him under you, demon, all warm and grey and tired. You can make him feel better, burn away the pain with a little hellfire.

Jack flinches when Hic straddles him with both knees. "The hell are you doing?"

"Distracting you."

Jack rolls his eyes. "We don't have time for this. The sock's still out there and I'm dy—"

"What did I tell you the other day? You're not dying, okay?" He cups Jack's face. "Just relax. You can't focus when you're in pain. Let me help you."

"There's no time…"

"It'll take ten minutes, fifteen max." His smile is small and soft. "I promise."

Jack sighs and rubs his eyes. "I can't get off in fifteen minutes."

"I'm not trying to get you off, stupid. It's just a distraction. And maybe I'm trying to get myself off, ever think about that?"

"Uh, wh—" Hic kisses him before he can answer. Slowly, suddenly, safely.

It's slow because time is distorted in GoodWill. This is a transient place, a place between life and death. Small town gas stations are the same way, so are backroad rest stops. There's a rest area on I-75, tucked behind a patch of sable palms and sawgrass. There are empty picnic tables and bathrooms that have never been cleaned or used. The vending machines carry Sprite and cracker jacks. No water. There's never more than fifteen people there at once, and there's always an old man fishing in the canal.

You ask him, "What've you caught, old man?"

He says, "Nothing. Yet."

The GoodWill warehouse feels like that. Separate, detached. Where did all this shit come from? Ugly Christmas sweaters, faded scrubs, teddy bears that smell like bleach. Jack doesn't want to know. He just wallows in the time warp, struggling to breathe and kiss. He sucks on Hic's lower lip and grabs the back of his neck. That pains in his stomach are sharp, but the kiss is sharper.

The kiss is sudden. It reaches out of the ceiling fans and cobwebs. Hic's tongue is in his mouth, Hic's hands are on his cheeks. There's too much body, not enough mind. But Jack likes the weight of Hic's frame, the way Hic covers every part of him. And there's too much wet, not enough dry. But Jack likes the sweat in between their joints and the saliva on their lips. There's tears, too. Hic's tears.

That's what makes this all so safe. Hic is silent and crying, careful not to put too much weight on Jack's body. He hovers over the protruding collarbone and peeling skin. Careful, careful, don't get too close. Don't go too far away, though. You have to repel each other like magnets.

They kiss and pant and then Jack groans and Hic pulls away.

"You feeling bad or good?"

Jack shakes his head. "Both. Keep distracting me, please."

So Hic kisses his neck and rubs his limp dick through his jeans. Yeah, it's pathetic, maybe it'll get its act together someday. Hic lets Jack give him hickeys on his throat. He lets him suck and gnaw until his jaw is buzzing. When the pains are no longer sharp, Hic rolls off and masturbates into a trash can. Jack sits on the table, knees pulled up to his chest, and watches.

"You know, I was one of the best sex workers in the area. I liked pleasing others, I was really good at it, too." His voice is quiet, his toes are curled into the plastic.

Hic zips his pants and wipes the sweat off his forehead. "What are you talking about, witchy?"

"Nothing. Just know that someday you won't have to do that." His cheeks are burning, but he doesn't care. "Someday you'll be begging me for more, you'll know why I was the best. Just know that, okay?"

It's quiet for a moment. Hic smiles. "Okay. I'm looking forward to it."

"Good."

"Good."

That's it, that's all there is to say. They keep looking for the sock, ignoring their swollen lips and burning skin.

 

At 2:45 AM, Hic is elbow deep in a bin of socks. "Maybe it's at the very bottom of one of these things?"

Jack groans. He's sitting on the plastic table, eating a bag of red hot Cheetos Hic got out of vending machine. "This is a waste of time. The sock doesn't fucking exist. Father Time sent us on a wild goose chase."

"A wild sock chase, you mean."

"Shut up."

Hic grins and digs deeper into the bin. Biceps disappear into a pile of thigh-highs. "Well, we need to find it before the store opens."

"I'm fucking tired! And this is stupid, let's just go home." Jack's being a child, he knows that. But his stomach hurts and the veins in his legs are throbbing. Blood pools in the corners on his body. The bruising has started.

"No, we need to find it. Take a nap or something, I'll keep looking." Hic's arm is buried. He rolls his eyes. "How deep is this shit? I didn't think—"

"Didn't think what?" Jack's busy with his Cheetos. All he can keep down nowadays are spicy things and sweet tea. He looks up. "Hic? Where'd you go?"

It's silent.

Dead fucking silent.

Yellow fluorescents spill across the floor like butter. Silence drips down the walls, pooling at Jack's feet. He's running around the warehouse, looking under tables and behind curtains. The curtains are dingy and remind him of unwashed hospital sheets. Look, there's a mirror, all smudged with sweat and makeup and grease from human hands. Jack climbs behind the cash register and overturns plastic bins.

"Hic! Hic, where are you?" His voice is raw and covered in Cheeto dust. He digs through the socks, through panty hose and see-through stockings. Nothing, nothing but cotton and nylon and spandex and lace. It goes on forever. What the hell is this? Jack growls through his teeth. "This isn't funny, you stupid demon fuck! Stop shadow jumping! This isn't funny!" Keep digging, keep throwing socks to the floor. He's folded over, half of him in the bin, half of him on the floor. And he sees nothing but fabric and thread and darkness, darkness so thick he can grab it. Like, he can actually grab it, what the fuck?

"What…" His fingers close around it, this black tube that feels like rubber. Or maybe it doesn't feel like rubber, maybe it doesn't feel like anything. When he tugs on it, something screams. The lights flicker, the warehouse shakes. Porcelain sheep fall off shelves, jewelry cases shatter and synthetic diamonds scatter. Jack's screaming. The thing in the sock bin is screaming. Tiles groan, tables roll across the floor, and then a dozen shadow tentacles rise out of the bins. Black, writhing, just tangible enough to be disgusting. And Hic is held up by his ankles, his wings spread wide.

Okay. This all sounds fake, right? A tentacle monster made out of darkness and slanting shadows? That's stupid, unbelievable, tropey, almost porny. Why is this happening to Jack? He didn't ask for this, this isn't his fetish. This thing should be made of sex swings and leather collars.

Hic gives him an upside-down thumbs up. "Don't worry, Jack! I've got this!"

"W-What is this?" Jack backs into the counter. His legs are shaking and his stomach is water. "What is this, what am I looking at?"

"Oh, it's just a colony of lesser demons." Hic shrugs and itches his neck. "They feed on mildew and negative memories, shit like that. This place is really infested…" He runs his hands down, or up, his face. It's hard to tell. Black arms wind around his waist and legs.

Jack's standing on the counter, trying to swat the shadows away. "You don't seem to give a shit about this."

"I don't." He shrugs again. "It's just a couple of demons, they'll get sick of us sooner or later."

"Great…" This is why Jack spends his time writing spells and making charms. This demon shit is too much. Secret reaper bases, three-legged hellhounds, shadow jumping and fire magic, it's ridiculous. The black tentacles slither up the walls. Must be looking for more mold and memories. A shadow is circling Jack's foot, it's thin and soft and satin. Holy shit, it feels like the creepy caress of some stalker. Jack steps on it.

The shadow hisses. "Sockssss… I just want your socks…"

"The fuck? Ew, no. Get away from me." He steps on it again.

Now the other tentacles are hissing and screaming. Hic waves his arms. "Don't do that again! You'll make them mad."

"Will I?" Jack looks at the tentacles sliding down the walls, wrapping themselves around the plastic bins and the ceiling fans. Then the black arms tighten around Hic's waist and he's had enough. He stands on the counter, fists trembling at his sides. Magic sleeps beneath these tiles, it lives in the foundation and the concrete and the soil that used to be swampland. The meds wore off long ago, but he doesn't need oxycodone to feel numb. He can't hold an erection, he can't please his lover, he can't even eat gator tail anymore. But he can be useful, he can use the one thing that lives in his veins. Magic does not need an able body. You don't need strong legs or steady lungs or stable intestines. You just need to exist. Jack exists, right? Let's forget the pain for a while, let's ignore the ugly purple bruises. He takes a deep breath and raises his foot. "Sorry, but they're making me mad. I don't have time for a shadow with a sock fetish."

He crushes the tentacle beneath his shoe and smiles when the shadows scream. Everything is ripped from the ground, the bins and the tile and the counter and the racks of clothes. Jack raises it all into the air, the porcelain sheep and the rubber gloves that smell like death. They spin around him, a hurricane of trash that keeps moving faster. Fluorescents are punched out by salt shakers, stilettos become high velocity projectiles. And Jack is in the middle of it, riding the counter and gritting his teeth. He cuts the shadows apart with safety scissors and kitchen knives and sharpened Crayons. Tentacles go flying. Shadows scream and cry about missing socks.

"I know you have it! I know you have the sock!" Jack screams into the vortex, tears in his eyes. "Give me the fucking sock, you freak!"

The shadows speak in one voice. "Noooooo! It's ours! Father gave it to us to protect!"

Hic is set free by a lone tennis racket going sixty-miles-per-hour. He rolls his eyes. "I knew that bastard was setting us up…" The air is thick with glass vases and VHS tapes. Gone With the Wind is being ripped to shreds. He flies through the mess and lands on the counter.

"Jack! What the hell are you doing?"

"What?" Jack whips around, his eyes red and raw and crying. "They have the Adidas sock, Hic! I'm just doing what needs to be done!"

"Really? Tearing apart a GoodWill is doing what needs to be done?" Hic grabs his shoulders. "I told you I was handling it!"

"You weren't handling shit! That thing was trying to strangle you and you just wanted me to stand there!"

"No, I wanted you to stay calm!" He has to scream now, the wind and the shadows are too loud. "Not everything has to end in violence!"

"Oh, give me a break!" Jack swats his hands away. "You said you were gonna rip Father Time's heart of his chest and eat it in front of him! Don't lecture me about violence!"

Hic cocks his head. "When did I say that? Tell me when I said that?"

"The other day, asshole! You said…"

They argue while the trash storm rages around them. There goes a vintage 1990's lunchbox, there goes the hardback edition of Breaking Dawn. Jack screams about socks and running out of time. Hic rolls his eyes and rubs at the hickeys on his neck. They fight about magic and virtue and violence and stuff that no one really cares about. And then a shadow winds around Jack's wrist and places a black Adidas sock in his hand.

"Please… just take it… please, leave us alone… we don't want to die anymore."

Hic and Jack stare at the sock.

"Holy shit, it worked, witchy."

"Yeah, it did."

The black tentacles crawl back into their hole. Shadows disappear into piles of pilly sweaters and into cracks in the wall. Jack stares at the sock as the counter returns to the floor. Tiles click back into place, broken vases slide back onto their shelves. All he has to do is give it a passing thought and it happens.

Put that shit back where it belongs.

Make this place look good as new, as new as possible.

Make everything normal again.

The magic listens and folds all of the polo shirts one by one. Rubber gloves slip back into their box. Jack can't fix the broken lights or VHS tapes, but this is good enough. He did good, right? Hic hugs him tight, rubbing the space in between his shoulder blades over and over again. The demon's wings feel like cotton against his skin. He hugs Hic back and listens to the magic slip back into the earth, back into his veins.

"Can we leave now?"

Hic nods. "Let's go home. You need to rest."

Jack wants to cry again. He doesn't know if it's because Hic called their little cabin in the swamp "home" or because even now, even after he's fought shadows and created a storm, he's still weak. He's still the guy that needs to rest, the guy that cries at everything. Home is a construct, strength is perception. And yet, he can't stop thinking about these things. If only Hic had known the Jack from before. There was a time when he was strong, when his hair was thick and his eyes were bright. Men and women trembled in his hands. Witches begged him to join their covens, customers paid hundreds of dollars to watch him sit on a stool and eat a tangerine. People loved him for the strangest reasons.

Now he is loved by one, maybe two. Part of this love is pity, that can't be denied. Jack doesn't want to be pitied. Not anymore. But it's too late, Hic's already seen him puking in the bathtub. He's kissed Jack's forehead after a nightmare, wiped him down with a warm washcloth. He's listened to Jack cry and heard him whimper into his pillow. Hic's heard him say, "It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts." Jack can never take that back. It cannot be unseen, undone, or unmade. So what can he do? Get hard for Hic? Fight hard, try hard, stop complaining when things get hard? Death is already coming for him. He should run faster.


End file.
